


Welcome to Stellr!

by skitzofreak



Series: The Holonet Is A Wild Place [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Bedsharing, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassian is good with his hands, Crash Landing, Cuddles, Death (Sandman) - Freeform, Droid rights, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Jyn is only mildly surprised, Lost families, Lots of weather prompts, Multiple Loosely Connected One Shots, Pining, Rated for cursing, Spy Stuff, Sugar, Tumblr Prompts, Unexpected marriage, Violence, allusions to sex, being a homeless teenaged ex-guerrilla fighter, established relationships - Freeform, look it's a lot of stuff, many random OCs, non-explicit sexual situations, non-explicit thoughts of suicide, occasionally canon-compliant, the definition of a good person is tied to what you consider the definition of a person, the nebulous definition of 'good', uncomfortable commentary on being raised as child soldiers, usually not canon-compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-03-08 07:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 46
Words: 77,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13453590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitzofreak/pseuds/skitzofreak
Summary: Jyn launches herself at his neck. He staggers back slightly, but his arms are steady around her and his laugh is soft and inviting. The sound cuts right through the rigid walls of professionalism and distance that she has built around her heart for most of her life, the walls that she has been reinforcing every hour for the last several months. And it’s sappy and sentimental and utterly out of character for her, but Cassian won’t tell on her and she thinks maybe she’s allowed this one moment. She presses her face against his neck and whispers, just loud enough that he can hear, “I’m home.”--A collection of one shots and random short stories, all of them in response to various prompts or "20 questions"-style postson tumblr, because I needed somewhere to archive them. Current chapter:And Jyn has an idea, because she is very super smart and knows what to do.





	1. Things That Made Me Happy This Year

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really like answering tumblr prompts with direct answers; it makes me uncomfortable and always feels like I'm probably boring people. So instead, I like to turn the questions into story prompts. This chapter's prompt was: "List the things in each category that made you happy in 2017." I was tagged by [VaderCat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/VaderCat/pseuds/VaderCat).
> 
> My original tumblr post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/169371791184/good-things-in-2017).

**BOOKS**

“So you read for fun?” Jyn asked him, in that neutral tone she used when she was genuinely curious but not sure she was allowed to ask, “How many do you have, anyway?”

“Digital novels don’t take up much dataspace.” Cassian shrugged and swiped to the next page. “I have a pretty big library, and I’m a fast reader.” He briefly considered offering to download his archive to another datapad for her, but what if she took that as some kind of insult? Or just a really pretentious commentary on her own education? Better to wait and see if she was interested enough to ask. In the meantime, he offered her a small smile and a seat next to him on the bunk. “It fills the hours in hyperspace, anyway.”

 

**MUSIC**

“I like it better,” Jyn confessed, not looking at him, “when there aren’t any words.”

Cassian smiled, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and nodded. “Play whatever you like,” he said. “I won’t mind.”

 

 

**TELEVISION**

“Hurry up,” Jyn called through the door, making an impatient gesture that Chirrut couldn’t see but Baze sure could. “The cooking show is about to start.” She smirked, and Baze rolled his eyes but Chirrut grinned conspiratorially at her.

Right on cue, Cassian grumbled from the room behind her, “ _Baking show.”_

“Sure,” Jyn agreed with a careless shrug, struggling to keep her smile from growing.

“I hope it’s dessert week,” Chirrut said loudly, gracefully sweeping to the center of the bench in front of the holoprojector that he certainly could not see.

“Bread,” Baze grumbled, thumping down next to him and setting his repeater cannon carefully on the floor by his feet. The Guardians were in the middle of the bench, leaving Cassian squished slightly onto one end and a small space for Jyn at the other. A flash of disappointment startled her, but Jyn shoved it down. That was fine – they weren’t exactly making a bit deal about the…whatever they were calling this new development in their relationship. She could sit on the other side of Chirrut and watch this show about bread or whatever and keep her hands to herself.

Cassian himself gave no indication of his thoughts on that, until Jyn started to walk past him. His hand shot out and he caught her by the wrist, a look of mild surprise on his face. He glanced from his own fingers curled around her arm up to her face, and seemed to come to a decision. Slowly, gently, he tugged on her wrist, pulling her closer. Jyn blinked at him, threw a glance at the Guardians, then tentatively took a step forward. Did he want her to…what, sit at his feet? Or, shit, on his lap? Was this how Cassian wanted to tell the Guardians that they were…together?

“Budge up,” Baze grumbled, nudging Chirrut with his elbow. “Give them some room.”

“Ah, my apologies,” Chirrut said, sounding anything but apologetic. “Have I blundered into the middle of something?”

“Jyn and Cassian,” Baze said bluntly, and Jyn’s heart flipped a little in her chest.

“Oh,” Chirrut said cheerfully, as if this was completely expected and not an enormous admission that made Jyn’s chest tight and her heart unsteady. “Of course.”

The two Jedhans pushed aside without further comment, and Jyn slid neatly into the space between Baze and Cassian, biting her lip and trying to look as unaffected as possible. Cassian hesitated a moment longer, then suddenly looped his arm over her shoulders as the opening music to the baking show he liked so much began to play. Jyn tensed, glancing up at Baze, who raised a ponderous eyebrow at her before turning pointedly back to the holoprojector.

Jyn let out the breath she was holding, and leaned against Cassian’s side. 

 

**MOVIES**

“It came out about eight months ago,” Bodhi held up the datachip like a trophy. “You missed it, I think you guys were both somewhere in…” he paused, scrunched his nose up and shook his head. “Yeah, wait, no, don’t tell me. It’s classified, right?”

“Probably,” Cassian agreed without looking up from his datapad.

“Might not have been,” Jyn snorted, “might have just been boring.” She wiggled so her legs were more firmly planted in Cassian’s lap and stretched her back out until it cracked. She was sprawled out across the shabby cushions on the bench like a careless fool, her feet bared and her weapons all set down on the floor (not quite in reach, but certainly not far out of it). Had anyone else been within a hundred lightyears of them, she never would have dared to lay like this, relatively unguarded and with her clear enjoyment of Cassian’s hand resting on her leg. But there was no one around except Bodhi to see, and he was safe.

“The likelihood of that,” Cassian quirked an eyebrow at her and adopted a tone reminiscent of Kay when he was being particularly snotty, “is low.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Anything is possible,” she muttered, and flexed her legs pointedly until he resumed running his palm slowly up and down her shin.

“Right. Anyway.” Bodhi tossed the datachip onto Jyn’s stomach. She caught it reflexively, and then twirled it in her fingers, contemplating the small image branded on the label. A curving planet’s horizon backed the grim but determined faces of a handful of scruffy, multi-species sentients. Rebels, she thought idly, noting the faint stamp of the Alliance firebird hidden cleverly in the planet’s profile. “So it’s probably Rebel propaganda, I know - ”

“Probably,” Cassian said again, eyeing the image in Jyn’s hand. He lifted his hand from her leg and tapped the faded firebird symbol lightly. “Rebel Studios,” he told her, “the PR branch to Intelligence.”

“It’s a bunch of rebels who fight back against the Empire in, um, unconventional ways,” Bodhi plowed on determinedly. “And I think you might, you know, like it.” He shifted his weight and glanced at Jyn sidelong. “It’s got a fighter who’s pretty, um, tough.”

Jyn exchanged a look with Cassian. “You want to watch it with us?” Jyn asked, trying to sound casual and not too excited about, shit, a probably cheesy fantasy movie about Good triumphing over Evil.

Bodhi had no such concerns; he perked up immediately. “Absolutely!” He all but threw himself onto the bench next to Jyn, forcing her to sit up quickly to make space. Despite herself, his enthusiasm was infectious, and she found herself looking around for the beat up holoprojector they had tucked in this ship somewhere.

Cassian smirked at her, dumping her feet to the floor and standing up. “I think we have popcorn. Or something close enough to it.” He traced his knuckles lightly down her cheek as he passed, and Jyn found herself, against all odds, looking forward to this vid, cheesy or not. Spending time with the man who was practically her brother and the man who was - well, whatever Cassian was, it was definitely _not_ a brother – but it would be…fun. Nice. Comforting. And who knew? Maybe she would even like this vid. Anything was possible.

 

 

**PERSONAL**

She’s the last into the hangar when the team returns, the last to stash her gear in the locker and the last to flip a loose-limbed salute to the pilot that brought them all back. There’s no hurry, honestly - she’s been gone a long time, and while she’s certainly missed home...well, she’s in no hurry to get out there _._ The thing is, this base in the middle of nowhere isn’t actually home to her. Hells, she’s never even been here before. Outside the shuttle, she can see the other soldiers she was working with these last several months rushing down the ramp, dropping their duffel bags without any concern for where they land, throwing their arms around their friends and lovers and even some children. (There aren’t a _lot_ of kids on Rebel bases, but there are enough. Life, as they say, finds a way.) The hangar rings with the sounds of laughter and crying and even a few catcalls at the partners getting, well, very  _in_  to their reunions.

But Jyn doesn’t rush. She doesn’t fling her duffel down (she never flings her stuff away like that, someone would have stolen it in a heartbeat, honestly, people in the Alliance have no sense of vigilance sometimes). And she isn’t laughing or crying. This isn’t home. Or, more accurately, home isn’t here. He is, as far as she knows, several days out on his own deployment, and by the time he comes back, she will have been moved elsewhere. They’ll catch up, of course (unless, well...this is a war, after all, but she doesn’t want to think about it, so she just thinks  _unless_ and then moves on.).  But even if he gets his op completed perfectly on time (he never does) and even if she’s not deployed to another months-long combat tour (she probably will), at some point they will cross paths again, soon. The Alliance owes her that much, at least.

It’s not much, but it’s more than she’s ever had since she was a teenager. before. So Jyn shoulders her bag and shoulders her way through the celebrating crowd and thinks about getting dinner in the mess before she finds a bunk to crash in. Hopefully she will get a quiet room to herself; it’s not common but if she’s at the front of the line before all the other happy soldiers with their reunions then there’s a chance she-

There is a droid holding a giant sign made from discarded crate-wood. WELCOME HOME!! it reads in large, sloppy red letters, and Jyn freezes as her brain registers the faces underneath it. “Over here!” Bodhi bellows, waving frantically. K2SO stands just to Bodhi’s left, his long arms and tall stature making the sign he’s holding look somehow even more ostentatious then it is already. 

But despite the enormous, ridiculous sign, Jyn’s eyes track to Bodhi’s right instead, and there he is, standing with one hand in his jacket pocket and the other curled around a plate of...shit, those are her favorite cookies, where did he even...?

“Hey, surprise! Look who I found!” Bodhi practically bowls her over, and she’s so staggered as it is that she barely keeps herself upright. “They brought him back early from his op. You’re welcome,” he pulls back and says with a mocking smile. “I called that one in. I’m very, um, very important around here, you know.”

“That is a shameless falsehood,” Kay interrupts primly, still holding the sign straight over his head despite the fact that Jyn is now too close to read it. “You did no such thing.”

Bodhi sputters good naturedly, but Jyn isn’t really listening. She’s staring as Cassian approaches slowly, like he thinks he will startle her if he makes any sudden movements. Just as slowly, he leans down and sets the cookie plate on top of her duffel, which is on the ground at her feet somehow, shit, did she drop...? 

“Welcome home,” Cassian says quietly, and his mouth pulls up slightly as he looks at her. 

Jyn launches herself at his neck. He staggers back slightly, but his arms are steady around her and his laugh is soft and inviting. The sound cuts right through the rigid walls of professionalism and distance that she has built around her heart for most of her life, the walls that she has been reinforcing every hour for the last several months. And it’s sappy and sentimental and utterly out of character for her, but Cassian won’t tell on her and she thinks maybe she’s allowed this one moment. She presses her face against his neck and whispers, just loud enough that he can hear, “I’m home.”

 


	2. Positivity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was "say 5 things positive about yourself" (except [@mardymaid](https://mardymaid.tumblr.com/) asked what I thought K2SO would say, if he were asked this question).
> 
> Original tumblr post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/170012552644/im-finally-getting-around-to-sending-on-some).

Jyn skids around the corner, her filthy boots slipping in the ankle deep mud that covers this part of the planet, and finds herself three steps from a dead end. Behind her, the heavy, squishy footsteps of her pursuer pound loudly through the muck – only seconds away from rounding that same corner and finding her gasping for air with nothing but an empty blaster, a broken vibroblade, and what’s probably a busted right arm.

Not her best day.

She slams hard against the wall as if it might magically open up to reveal a hidden passageway. No such luck. There is a door tucked against the far left wall, but it’s made of solid metal and has at least two locks that she can see at a glance. No time to pick it, no time to –

“Hells, you’re a fast one,” the asshole who plans to sell her to the Empire pants as he appears at the opening to the alley. Jyn eyes him – almost two meters tall, at least one hundred kilos, wearing metal and leather-worked armor over his vital bits, shit, he’s even got a kriffing helmet and gorget. If she’s quick (and she does not feel quick right now, not with pain lancing down through her right side and blood oozing into her left eye and…damn it, her left bootheel has come loose, she knew she should have taken up Cassian’s offer to get new ones, damn the boot, damn her arm, damn  _this jackass_ ) – if she’s quick, she might get her broken blade into his eye. She might at least break his crooked, filthy nose.

She shifts her weight, ready to spring as he stomps through the mud towards her. He sees it, and grins. His teeth are shockingly white and clean and straight, wildly contrasting with his worn and muddy clothes, his worn and even  _more_  muddy face.  “No good, sweetheart,” he says in a light tone. He sounds almost kindly, like a grown up speaking to a frustrated child. “Won’t do you, no use trying. You’re hurt, and worse,” he stops a few steps out of reach and makes a show of looking her over, taking in her slumped shoulders and her heaving chest, the sweat on her skin and the pale cast of her face, “you’re exhausted.”

He lunges forward, and Jyn gets her good arm up but he’s coming too fast and she  _is_  hurt and she  _is_  exhausted and oh fuck here it comes close your teeth together and breathe out –

A shriek of twisting metal, a startled shout, a sharp  _snap_ , and then…Jyn opens her eyes.

“The typical organic decreases in efficiency by seventeen percent for every hour of physical fatigue beyond standard operating levels,” a crisp electronic voice says from somewhere far above Jyn’s head. The jackass trying to sell her is whimpering and clawing at his arm, and also appears to be…hovering in the air? Ah, no. Jyn tilts her head back and despite herself, smiles up at the tower of scratched black metal and faded silver paint.

“Frustratingly, all organic beings have individual and highly non-standardized operating levels,” K2SO continues, his glowing yellow optics focused on the pale and sweating face of the thug, oblivious to the way the man writhes in his grip, the arm in Kay’s grip clearly broken. “And they do not come with operating manuals,” Kay adds, his voicebox shifting into a distinct tone of disapproval that Jyn knows all too well.

“Neither do you,” she murmurs with a smile that warps into a grimace, leaning back against the wall and running her good hand carefully up her right arm, feeling for the –  _shite_ , yeah, there it is, definitely a break…right… _there_.

Kay’s head twists away from the dangling thug to look at her for a moment, his optics telescoping on her and flickering to blue for a moment, which she’s learned means he’s giving her a brief CT scan. “My hardware is largely standardized and my specifications easily researched. There is a linear fracture in your right ulna.”

“Makes it easier to hack you,” Jyn points out, rolling up her muddy sleeve and fumbling her scarf off her neck. It isn’t much, but she can wrap it tight enough around her forearm to stabilize the fracture until she gets some bone stabilizers from the medkit in their ship. It will make some ugly bruises on her arm and hurt like a bitch for a few days, but should heal up fine.

The thug (or rather,  _slaver_ , Jyn decides – the Empire wouldn’t have kept Jyn alive long enough to be a laborer, but as far as the thug was concerned, she was meat to be sold) hisses a string of invectives and tries to twist out of Kay’s grip. The move only makes his arm bend even further into an improbable shape, and he whimpers, fat tears streaming down his dirty face and leaving trails in the grime. Kay turns his head back to regard the slaver impassively. “That is why I specified ‘largely standardized,’” he says primly to her. “I have been upgraded,” he informs the slaver helpfully.

“Put me down, you fucking rusty bitch,” the slaver wheezes.

“The captain will not be pleased that you have damaged yourself again,” Kay says, ignoring this.

“The captain,” Jyn replies a little testily as she awkwardly winds the scarf around her forearm, trying to keep the end from dragging in the mud, “will get over it.”

“He will be upset that the meeting turned out to be a trap,” Kay continues over the slaver’s increasingly frantic pants and pained cries. “My initial analysis placed that probability at thirty-two percent.” Jyn glances at him over her arm. His voicebox does not falter, but it definitely drops slightly in volume, which she is learning to interpret as…embarrassment, she thinks. Maybe nervousness?  _Concern_ , she decides, eyeing the slightly agitated way that his optics keep narrowing and refocusing on the thug as if he is examining a particularly foul piece of organic waste, or a bad line of code.

“So you were right,” Jyn shrugs as well as she can without moving her bad arm or dropping the scarf. “Traps happen.”

“He will say that he should have been there instead,” Kay says a touch morosely.

Jyn rolls her eyes and bites down on her scarf end, using her teeth to tug her makeshift brace tight. “Better me than him,” she mutters through the material. And that’s not bloody minded protectiveness or anything, either – that fight had come down to a lot of hand-to-hand and while Cassian was no slouch, he wasn’t…well, he wasn’t  _her._

“You are better conditioned and trained to handle violent confrontation,” Kay agrees. “She is forty-five percent more efficient at combat than the captain,” he tells the slaver, who does not seem particularly impressed.

“Fifty, minimum,” Jyn corrects, securing her broken blade hilt in her belt and stepping close enough to pluck the slaver’s spare ammo clip from his belt. “Blaster?”

Kay’s eyes go blue again for a moment. “Right boot.”

Jyn fishes the blaster from the slaver’s kicking boot and tucks it into her shirt, reloading her own and tucking it back into her holster.

Kay regards the slaver for a moment longer, then turns, hefts the big man by his underarms, and with a faint whine of his servos, sends the Human flying over the wall. Jyn cocks an eyebrow and listens to the shriek, the thud, then the short silence. Kay’s eyes flash bright white for a moment, and then he turns to her and says “I am twenty-four percent more efficient at physical violence than you.”

The tension goes out of her shoulders. If the slaver was showing any life signs, Kay’s short-range sensors would have picked them up. “Only against a single opponent,” she replies, turning and walking as casually as she can out of the alley, tucking her broken arm into her jacket and trying to look like just another local going about her business. It isn’t easy to pull off, not with the giant black droid clumping along behind her. But this is an Imperial town so an old Imp droid isn’t too remarkable a sight. And anyway, Jyn reflects as she tucks her arm in close and walks a little bit closer to his looming shadow - he’s well worth any trouble he might bring down on her.


	3. Tell Us About Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was "7 Questions About Yourself." I was tagged by [Copper_NailPolish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Copper_Nails). 
> 
> Original tumblr post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/168700117459/tagged-by-coppernailpolish-thanks-of-course).

**Relationship Status** : 

“Hey, hey Theo, didja see her? Theo, get your head out of the kriffing intake and tell me-”

"Shut it, you _poodran_ , I’m trying to get Commander Antilles’ port stabilizers done before the next, you know, _major emergency_ comes along and the fighters have to scramble. To protect us from the Empire. Remember the  _Empire,_ Cyana? The oppressive regimethat wants to turn every one of us into space dust?”

“Yeah, yeah, right, sure, whatever, Fight The Power. Look, did you see her or not?”

“That sergeant you’re so in kriffing love with? Yeah babe, saw her like an hour ago when she came in on the last shuttle.”

“ _Seriously?_ Did she have a string of bucket-heads slung over her shoulder? Did she do that sexy “I could kill everyone in this hanger with my pinkie” walk? Was she all beat up, but like, in an attractive way?”

“Son of a horny mynock, Cyana, where do you get this shit?”

“ _Theo-_ ”

“No, okay? She just…walked out of the shuttle.”

“And?”

“And into some guy’s arms.”

“What?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Was it, um, maybe like a “hey, buddy, we haven’t seen each other in ages, you old dog, you, lets get drinks and catch up!” kind of hug?”

“More like a “welcome home, my love” sort of hug.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“’S fine.”

“Look…Cyana, I am sorry. but hey…hang in there, okay? You’ll…find someone, someday. Someone who’s worth you.”

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks, Theo.”

“Anytime. Um. Look, you want to get a drink?”

“Don’t you have to fix Commander Antilles’ port stabilizers?”

“I’ll get Grig to cover me.”

“Thanks, Theo.”

“Anytime.”

 

**Favorite Color:**

[Internal Message Server HOME930][Keystroke Override Activated] 

Erso [0921]: there is a green scarf on bed. yours?

Andor [0923]:  ~~Do you like~~  Your old one has holes in it.

Erso [0924]: gift for me?

Andor [0925]: That  ~~still~~  surprises you? 

Erso [0928]: n

Erso [0928]: y

Andor [0930]: Do you like the color?

Erso [0931]: y

Erso [0931] gloves you gave me last week were green

Andor [0932]:  ~~It reminds me of y~~     ~~does that weird you o~~   I like green.

Erso [0933]: good to know

 

 **Lipstick or chap-stick** : 

“I don’t,” Jyn said flatly, giving Leia her best hard stare, “wear makeup.”

“Bantha shit,” Leia replied serenely. “You wear kohl on your eyes all the time. You’re wearing it right now. And you use that glossy shit on your lips even when you’re not deployed to some desert wasteland or frozen hellscape.”

Jyn crossed her arms. “Warpaint.”

Leia rattled the lipstick at her. “Exactly.”

Jyn’s jaw clenched and her eyes darkened. The air around her seemed to thicken with menace and a faint copper tang of blood. A nearby mechanic bit her lip and stared, wide eyed. Another edged carefully towards the door, tugging at his friend’s sleeve.

Leia raised an eyebrow.

Jyn sighed, and the menace dissipated. She held out one gloved hand, and Leia set the makeup kit graciously into it. She even managed not to smirk until Jyn had turned sharply on her heel and marched away, brandishing the kit like a grenade.

 

 **Three favorite foods** : 

“It was a kind of rice paste,” Jyn sketched a hand randomly in the air, as if she could draw out the picture in her head for Cassian to see. “They wrapped it around these little scoops of flavored ice cream, and you could eat them in two bites. I only had them once, when Codo smuggled some in with the nitro glycerin, but I never forgot.”

“Ice cream in with the nitro?” Cassian hurriedly suppressed the quirk of his mouth, just before Jyn lifted her head from his shoulder to glare at him. 

“It was the only cold storage unit we had at the time,” she said repressively. “And it was a sweet gesture for my birthday.”

“Very sweet,” Cassian agreed and almost made a joke about this Codo being just as sweet on Jyn, but the faint shadow behind her eyes caught his attention and he instead pressed a soft kiss to her temple and waited for her to lay her head back down.

“So? Your turn.”

“I don’t really have a favorite,” Cassian shrugged, as much as he was able with Jyn’s head on one shoulder and the other still in the heavy sling he’d earned yesterday. “But I suppose anything with fresh ingredients makes me pretty happy.”

He could feel her smile through his thin shirt. “Years of military food?” 

“If it can be called food.”

“Hm,” Jyn stretched out against his side for a quiet moment, then sighed and resettled a little closer. “Guess I know what I’ll be stealing, our next op.”

 

 **Last song you listened to** : 

The gentle voice echoed slightly in the small repair bay near the shuttle, but still  the rich tone seemed to slip into Jyn’s chest and curl around something small and fragile there. The woman sang,  _and I don’t want the world to see me, because I don’t think that they’d understand,_ and the fragile thing fluttered and warmed.

“Kina Grannis,” she repeated slowly. 

Luke Skywalker, hero of the Battle of Yavin and rumored to be one of the legendary Jedi Knights of old come to save the Rebellion from the clutches of evil, bounced a little on his toes. “That’s right!”

Across the small hangar, Cassian stood with his profile to them, his eyes intent on the blaster spread in pieces before him on his workbench. Jyn’s eyes fixed on his hands as they moved with certainty through the many tiny, fragmented pieces, slipping them back together until the weapon was whole again.

Skywalker’s smile was bright enough to light the room. “Isn’t her voice really nice?”

“Mm,” Jyn murmured softly, as the lilting voice sang on,  _when everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am._

 

**Last movie you watched:**

[Internal Message Server HOME930][Keystroke Override Activated] 

 

Rook [1348]: hey did you hear the pilots found a pirated copy of the new Space Crusades holo? want to watch it?

Erso [1350]: who do you think they asked to pirate it?

Rook [1352]: so you have already seen it?

Erso [1352]: y

Rook [1353]: and?

Erso [1355]: I don’t want to talk about it

 

**Top 3 shows:**

“That cooking show,” Jyn answered for him immediately, her face completely (impressively) blank, even when Cassian grunted in exasperation and rolled his eyes. 

“ _Baking_  show,” he corrected. “It’s the Great Coruscant  _Baking_ Show,” he tapped her wrist sharply with one finger, and Jyn’s mouth twitched at one corner, “and you know it.”

“What about you, Jyn?” Bodhi asked, idly flipping the star chart he’d been pretending to study for several minutes in one hand. “What’s your favorite?”

“I haven’t seen many,” she shrugged. “But there was…a nature show, I think. About one of those planets with millions of species on it. I forgot the planet, but the planet name was also the name of the show. It had fungus that grew out of the tops of bug heads and this giant sea monster that could jump it’s entire body out of the water to shred it’s prey with it’s three hundred teeth.”

The star chart stilled in Bodhi’s hand, and Cassian raised an eyebrow. Jyn glanced between them. “And funny birds,” she added.

“What’s yours, Bodhi?” Cassian asked in the small silence that followed. 

“Um, Exemplar: The Last Force Master,” Bodhi said weakly. “It was a popular show about Jedi padawans when I was, you know, when I was a kid. Lots of, um, special effects, and a really cool old guy who drank tea and gave out good advice that, that no one ever listened to. But I don’t, uh, don’t remember any sea monsters.”

Cassian’s smile took on a teasing edge. “No sea monsters? How did you even watch it?”

Jyn narrowed her eyes, but Bodhi chuckled and flipped the star chart again. “It wasn’t easy, but I, um, I managed.”

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fits in with just about all of my fic.
> 
> ...yes, I made Jyn listen to a cheesy song. In my defense, the remix is really haunting.


	4. Q and A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt is "20 Questions About You." I was tagged by [@crazy-fruit](http://crazy-fruit.tumblr.com/) (also known as [Ivaylo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivaylo/pseuds/Ivaylo).
> 
> Original tumblr post is [here.](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/167057618504/q-and-a)
> 
> **Some of the original post's questions were adjusted, because I could not imagine Jyn asking Cassian what his eye color was, especially while she was right there looking at him.

**Where were you born?**

“Nieve, on Fest.” Cassian adjusts the pillow under his neck and waits for her to settle where she will – and tries not show his surprise (or delight) when she stretches out beside him and tentatively rests her hand on his chest, just over his heart. “And yes, yes it means ‘snow,’” he hurries to add, distracting them both from the slight jump in his heartrate. “It was a factory town. People had…other things on their minds.”

**Were you named after anyone?**

“My uncle, I think,” he says quietly, his eyes unfocused and his brow slightly furrowed, the hard edges of a frown forming on his otherwise relaxed face. “My father’s brother. I can’t really remember who told me that but…” he trails off, and Jyn regrets asking until he turns to look at her and says, “I’d almost forgotten that. Thank you,” he brushes a quick kiss to her forehead, “for the reminder.”

**Do you like your handwriting?**

“Like I ever wrote anything on scrip before here,” she snorts. “Bodhi calls it bug-scratches. He keeps threatening to make me do writing exercises. I don’t get why he can’t just use his net-mail account like everyone else.”

**Would you bungee jump?**

“That sounds like the stupidest way to get somewhere I’ve ever heard. Just rappel down.” She pauses, tilts her head thoughtfully. “Although I guess if all you want to do is provide a distraction,  _swoosh_  in and drop a grenade or something and then, sort of, you know,  _swoosh_  back out? Could work.”

**What’s your favorite cereal?**

“At this point,” he sighs, looking up at their ceiling with a mild grimace, “I’d eat anything that wasn’t freeze dried for a year before it got to us.”

**Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?**

“I own exactly one pair of boots,” Jyn pokes him in the side. “You can’t take off boots without untying them. Wait, do you have shoes that aren’t boots?” She flops onto his chest, a touch melodramatically, and exclaims, “How many outfits do you  _have_ , anyway?”

**What’s your favorite lunch meat?**

“Whatever they are serving in the galley,” Cassian’s mouth quirks slightly. “About three days before they serve it, anyway.”

**Do you have kids?**

“No,” he says slowly; she’s curled in so close that she can feel the tension seeping into his muscles as he speaks. “I have not had… relationships like this before.” He clears his throat slightly. “And what few I did, I was, ah, very careful. I didn’t want to…I don’t…” He trails off, and Jyn turns her head and presses her lips to his throat for a long moment, until he lets out the breath he’s holding and relaxes against her again.

**Do you still have your tonsils?**

“My what?” Jyn lifts her head to look at him, a confused frown on her face. “Wait, is that a euphemism for my virginity? What? Why is that funny?”

**When was the last time you cried?**

“Before Jedha?” Jyn’s shoulders hunch slightly, and Cassian’s arm tightens around her, tucking her in against his side until there is no space left. “Probably on Tamsye Prime.”

**If you were a different person, would you be friends with you?**

“No.”

**Do you think you are a strong person?**

“I survived this long,” he shrugs, but Jyn doesn’t like the too-casual tone in his voice, so she sits up for a moment to press a fierce kiss to his lips and growls against his mouth, “Yes, you  _have_.”

**What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?**

“I don’t remember what it was called,” her free hand made a sketchy motion in the air above his chest. “It was purple though. Not grape. Some kind of root. Tinno? Trio? Something like that. This old lady used to sell it in the village a few hours from our farm on Lah’mu. Every year for my birthday, my parents took me there, and I always picked the purple one. Turro. I don’t know.”

**What’s the first thing you notice about people?**

“Aside from basic visual description, you mean?” Cassian stretches his spine slightly, settling her head more firmly on his shoulder and adjusting his arm under her. “Body language. How aggressive they are, whether or not they seem open to outreach,” he pauses, glances down at her, “how close they stand.”

**Do you use sarcasm?**

“Never.”

**What’s your least favorite physical thing about yourself?**

“I want about another fifteen solid centimeters, and another four or five kilograms of solid muscle.” Jyn kicks his shin lightly with her bare toes. “Don’t chuckle too hard, I can still kick your arse across this base and back again.”

**What’s the furthest you ever traveled?**

“From where? You can’t measure how far you’ve gone from home if you don’t belong anywhere to start.”

**If you were a crayon, what color would you be?**

He raises an eyebrow at her, but she bites the inside of her cheek to keep a straight face and stares back. He breaks first, and rolls his eyes. “You pick for me. But, ah, not red.”

**Favorite smell?**

“Hang on, I’ll show you,” he murmurs, and Jyn yelps slightly when he suddenly rolls them over and buries his nose in her neck, inhaling deeply. “Ah, there it is,” he says with great satisfaction, and she groans aloud because she cannot believe he is such a  _ridiculous_   _sap_  – “Only sometimes,” he shoots back in a slightly muffled tone. “Only when it makes you laugh.” ( _Such_  a sap.)

**Who was the last person you talked on the comm with?**

“I said it wasn’t like an interrogation,” she grumbles at him. “That’s an interrogation question. What, are you jealous? It was a very attractive Twi’lek. Wealthy, too. And she doesn’t say sappy – don’t you dare, you know I’m not ticklish – she’s got legs that go on for – I am serious, don’t make me break your damn fingers – legs that go on for miles and –  _Cassian!”_

**Favorite sport to watch?**

“I used to love gravball,” he admits, a touch sheepishly, tracing a finger over her laughter-flushed cheek and debating kissing her. She’s settled back against his side, though, breathing a little hard and eyeing his hand suspiciously but obviously comfortable again. So he decides to hold off, for now, until she’s done with this game. “My family used to watch it together. It was…a happy time. Noisy, but happy.”

**Is that your natural hair color?**

“I haven’t dyed my hair since I was seventeen,” she reaches up and tugs a lock forward, and her eyes cross a little as she looks at it. “I dyed it blonde last, I think, although I changed it so much back then I can’t really remember. My favorite was blue, though. I liked having blue hair. I even worked in purple highlights. Shut up, it was pretty.”

**Do you wear contacts?**

“Yeah, did that too, for awhile. Mostly darker ones, although some of the neon colors too, when I was going for the “low life punk child” look that makes most people try really hard not to look at you. Nice way to hide your identity from scanners, too,” she gives him a significant look, “As I’m sure you know.”

**From who did you inherit your eye color?**

“Both my parents had dark eyes,” he says. “Although I think my mother’s were darker. I don’t really…someone who knew them told me a long time ago that I looked just like my father. But I like to think that I have her eyes, at least. I like…I like to think that I carry at least some small part of her.”

**What are you listening to right now?**

“Shh, just listen,” he closes his eyes and slows his breathing, and Jyn eyes him suspiciously but tries to keep her own breathing light and her ears perked. Distantly she picks out the muffled sound of the public announcement system and the constant drone of the busy hangar one deck beneath them, and of course, Cassian’s soft breathing, but what else… “Your heartbeat is synching with mine,” he murmurs, and his mouth curves up into a smile as she groans and pokes his side again.

**Favorite food?**

“I had this meat-on-a-stick thing once,” she wiggled a little against him, and casually drew her knee up to rest against his hip, almost but not quite draping her leg over his lower body. “Some kind of wooly animal they ate on that planet. It was amazingly good. I wish I knew what it was called. I would fight a ‘trooper patrol for the chance to eat that again.”

**Scary movie or comedy?**

“I have not seen many films from beginning to end,” he resettles his free arm on his stomach, a little lower than before, and casually brushes his fingertips against her knee. “Draven has all of us review popular media summaries before going to Core worlds, though, so we don’t look clueless about current cultural phenomenon when we’re on an op. I guess I like the funny references better than the horror.”

**Last movie you watched?**

To his surprise, a faint pink colors her cheeks, and she turns her face into his chest and mumbles something. He’s a patient man though, and he waits her out, until at last she sighs loudly and says, “Mister Fantastic’s Shining Starbird. I watched it…a lot. Memorized it. Wanted to be Nialla Nebula when I grew up. My mother even made me a cape with the Starbird constellation on it. I was  _eight_ , alright?”

**Summer or winter?**

“Summer,” he says firmly, and ignores her knowing chuckle.

**Book you’re currently reading?**

“An biography of a man named Emilio Zapatista.” Cassian slides his hand softly, lightly, over her knee and hooks his fingers behind it. “He was a historical figure on Fest, from long before the Old Republic fell. A revolutionary,” he tugs gently on her knee, just enough for her to feel it but not enough to move her. “And a hero of the working class people.” She shifts a little closer and lets him guide her leg across his hips, and he smiles against her hair.

**Who do you miss right now?**

“Everyone we lost,” she murmurs against his chest, her fingers clenching against his shirt and then immediately unclenching again, smoothing out the fabric. “But right now I’m…pretty happy about who I’m with.”

**What’s your favorite sound?**

“Alright, now you’re really pushing that sappy thing,” she growls, but there’s no teeth in it, and he hums in unrepentant agreement. “There,” she reaches up and lays her fingertips against his mouth. “If we’re going to be all soft and mushy, then I’ll say that. That noise you make when you’re happy or you think something’s funny.” Her voice drops suddenly, to just above a whisper. “Your voice in general.”

**Hugs or kisses?**

“Such a  _sap_ ,” she groans again, then with one deft movement she rolls up until she’s straddling him, and leans down with her hands braced on his shoulders. “I don’t know,” she says decisively. “I need examples of both before I can choose.”

He is happy to oblige.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Such_ a sap.


	5. 5 things in my bag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was "5 things you'll find in my bag." I was tagged by a couple people, but @crazy-fruit got there first. (There's actually more to this prompt, this was just the question I chose to answer).
> 
> My original tumblr post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/170155039424/got-tagged-by-crazy-fruit-and-imsfire2-for-that).

“Good morning, sir, ma’am, welcome aboard _The_ _Unstoppable Force_ ,” the cheerful Human greeted Cassian and Jyn loudly as they walked up to the transport. “Make sure you’re not booked on our sister ship, _The Immovable Object.”_ She laughed at her own joke and pointed over to the nearest landing spot, where an equally old and patchworked shuttle was being prepped for similar departure.

Jyn shot Cassian a look, which he ignored. “Thank you, Chief Manchot,” he said blandly. “I believe this is the correct ship.”

“Awesome,” the chief enthused. “Always happy to carry officers around, to be honest with you, sir. They get the best destinations.” She shoved a datapad decorated with glittering red and purple flowers in Jyn’s direction. “Sign in, please, and we’ll get you up and in the hyperlanes in a Kessel minute!”

Jyn instinctively stepped back from the flailing datapad, eyeing the bright smile of the stranger with some consternation. It was two hours before the day rotation began, and most of the rebels moving through the hangar had the sluggish step of the newly-woken or the tired drag of the too-long-awake. The dim light of pre-dawn was only just infusing the heavy dark of this planet’s moonless night, softening the world’s edges and muting its colors and sounds. Everything had a gentle sort of blur to it – except for the patch of ground where Chief Manchot stood, with her too bright hair and too bright eyes and far, far too bright smile. “Here you go, Lieutenant!” she half-shouted, and laughed as she saw Jyn glance at the flowers on her datapad. “Oh, that’s just so no one grabs mine by mistake,” she leaned in conspiratorially and winked. “Sait kept grabbing it to play Angry Droids, but he hates flowers.” She wiggled the ‘pad at Jyn again, who edged slightly further back and tried not to grab her truncheon. “Works like a charm.”

“An excellent strategy, Chief,” Cassian said coolly, coming to his partner’s rescue with a faint smile.  He casually took the datapad from the loud woman’s hands and tapped in a long code to the manifest, which made the screen beep and flash green.

“Oooooooh, one of those,” Manchot cooed, her eyes somehow lighting up even brighter and her smile improbably growing. “Haven’t had a –“ she swept a painfully obvious glance around the small hangar and then winked at Cassian, “ _secret mission_ in ages! Right this way, folks, and _oy, Sait! Get ‘er spooled up, we got Vee-Eye-Peas!_ ”

Jyn scowled and stomped after her, shooting a glance back at her partner. Cassian kept his eyes studiously on the shuttle, but Jyn could see the faint lines around his mouth that meant he was hiding a smile. “You said this was the most discrete option,” she growled under her breath.

“ _The Unstoppable Force_ crew has a ninety-three percent success rate on successful drop offs, and a ninety-one percent rate for successful pick ups,” he replied calmly. “They and _The Immovable Object_ are considered one of our best aerial transport units in the rebel fleet.”

High praise, she thought, considering that both Etti Light Freighters looked like they had been dragged through a meteor shower backwards, and were at least ten years past their primes. The crew of each looked about five to six strong, on ships that normally required at least twenty. “You can opt out of this one,” Cassian told her quietly as they drew close, his voice dropping below the cheery shouts of Chief Manchot and the answering voices of her crew. “It only called for a single operative.”

Jyn looked at him, and the smile lines around his mouth deepened slightly. “Just pointing it out,” he said lightly, and settled the strap of his duffel more firmly on his shoulder.

“Ninety-one percent.” Jyn muttered, eying the two transports with pursued lips and pausing at the base of _Unstoppable’s_ ramp. “Are those their reported numbers, or Intel’s numbers?”

Cassian brushed a hand against the small of her back reassuringly and walked confidently up into the ramp. “Kay’s,” he called back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the hold.

Jyn swallowed a sigh and marched up the ramp herself. Inside the freighter wasn’t much more impressive, although there were fewer exposed wires than she’d expected and almost no rust marks. At least _The Unstoppable Force_ was well maintained, Jyn tried to reassure herself. And Kay didn’t give good numbers unless he meant them.

“You can sling your bags in your sleeping compartment!” Chief Manchot shouted from somewhere down the passageway towards what Jyn presumed was the cockpit. “ _Larenz!_ Show our veeps where they can kip for the duration!”

A sullen looking Human adolescent slunk from around the corner, all dyed black hair and grungy mechanic’s clothes – although Jyn noted somewhat sardonically that the grunge was more artful than incidental, all the holes cut by a neat hand, the stains all the same color. A mess, but a carefully styled and maintained mess. The kid grunted at them both, and jerked their head at a side passage that led towards berthing. “Sleep there,” they muttered, pointing a black-painted fingernail.

“Thank you, Sergeant Larenz,” Cassian said politely. The sergeant (and it occurred to Jyn that maybe she was getting old, that she felt even mildly disturbed at seeing a teenager with a rank on their chest) slouched against the bulkhead next to the door and shrugged at them. “Is there anything else we need to know?” Cassian asked, stepping forward slightly and then pausing when the kid stayed right where they were, not moving out of the way to the door. “Or some other message you needed to pass on?”

Larenz stared at him through half-closed eyes. Cassian stood still, one hand half extended to the partially obscured door handle, his face blank.

It was Jyn’s turn to roll her eyes – she wasn’t much for children, but even she knew never to get caught in a staring match with a disaffected teen. If she left this one up to Cassian, they’d be standing in the hallway for the rest of the trip. “Out of the way, kid,” she stepped forward and gently elbowed the adolescent aside. “You’ll get paid when we get where we’re going.”

The teen shrugged and slouched a few steps away as if nothing had happened. “Duffels go under the bed,” they said in a bored tone. “You can put your purse in the overhead storage.”

Jyn blinked. “My what?” But Larenz was already turning the far corner and didn’t bother to reply. Cassian stepped in behind her and closed the door.

“Teenagers,” he grumbled under his breath, and reached over Jyn’s head to settle his folded parka in the small compartment over the narrow bed.

“What’s a purse?” Jyn demanded, shoving the thin mattress up and dumping her duffel in the compartment underneath. Cassian leaned around her to set his next to hers, and Jyn lowered the bed back into place.

“A small bag that people use to carry personal items they need throughout their average day,” Cassian replied, stepping sideways into the small personal ‘fresher attached to their narrow quarters. "Common in the Core and Inner Rim, usually substituted for a satchel or rucksack in the Mid Rim.”

“All your stuff in one container?” Jyn raised an eyebrow. “So you can get robbed all at once?”

Cassian chuckled softly. “They have their uses,” he said mildly, opening a small cabinet in the ‘fresher and flicking the shower door open to check for signs of surveillance. “They gave us the largest passenger berthing,” he said with a note of pleasure in his voice. “I guess the Chief likes us.”

“Don’t know why,” Jyn pulled her spare knives from her boots and considered the room thoughtfully.

“She might just be one of those people,” Cassian shrugged and ran the tap for a moment, scrubbing the cold water over his face.

“One of _what_ people?” Yes, it looked like her smallest vibroblade would fit neatly in the slot by the door, which would put it within Cassian’s reach from the bed. Her second smallest went under the mattress, close to the wall so it would be accessible to Jyn at night. They could easily sling a blaster holster under the overhead compartment on the bed, too. There, she felt better already.

Cassian sidled back out of the ‘fresher, a move that brought him close to her back. Once, he might have pressed himself back against the wall and Jyn would have leaned close to the bed and they would have pretended there was a lot more space between them than physics allowed. Now, he stepped a little forward and slid his hands around her hips. Jyn leaned back immediately, enjoying the sensation of solid warmth surrounding her, steady, familiar, safe. “You know,” he murmured against her hair, his body relaxing slightly against her, “the people who like other people.”

“Ah,” Jyn closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “One of those.”

They stood a moment longer, only the sound of their breathing and the distant hum of the hangar echoing in their ears. This, Jyn knew, was why she fought in this war. The universe was vast and overflowing with life and noise and the violence of existence, but sometimes…sometimes it was this, too. Sometimes it was the tiny silence and the brief warmth of a simple embrace, everything she needed in a few slow breaths.

Then the metal floor shook, and the whine of a starting engine escalated into the steady roar of a ship ready to launch. Cassian dropped his arms, Jyn straightened, and together they stepped back out into the vast universe.


	6. Sports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is...not _technically_ a prompt. More like "something depressing happened in soccer, and some people needed consolation." I don't follow football, of any nation, but I did my best.
> 
> Original tumblr post is [here.](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/166276549169/well-you-asked)
> 
> *This chapter here is actually an expansion on the tumblr post, to polish it up a bit.

Cassian follows gravball, not necessarily because he’s deeply invested in the players or teams, but because he has faint but fond memories of his once-large family gathering around the holoscreen on Fest, shouting at the screen, cheering, laughing, sometimes crying, and occasionally fighting (he thinks there might have been an uncle who liked a team that wasn’t from Fest, and that caused some, shall we say,  _strife)._ He remembers that his mother used to make queso fundido on game days, and his father gave him a gravball (worn, second hand, but still solid enough to kick around) on his birthday. He remembers playing with that gravball with lots of other kids (his cousins? at least some of them were cousins, he’s almost sure) while adults hooted and screeched and howled with joy when someone scored a  _goooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaal_ in the background. There aren’t any parties now, of course, and half the time he misses the game or even, sometimes, the whole season. But he always looks it up on the holonet afterwards, if he couldn’t watch in real time. Later, when he finds Kay, the droid figures out that Cassian’s mental well-being increases by a range of 5 - 8 % when he watches the games, so he devotes data space to recording them. When he’s watching the games, Cassian can almost pretend he’s  _home._

Jyn initially has no understanding of, nor interest in, gravball. She’s actually a little taken aback the first time she walks in to Cassian’s room expecting to find him buried in reports and analysis sheets and instead he’s lounging on his bunk, watching Kay’s projection of a live gravball game and groaning as his team whiffs a critical play. He offers to turn it off, but she shrugs and makes a vague effort to watch with him…except as the game goes on and Cassian explains what’s happening, Jyn’s competitive streak begins to stir. Naturally, she roots for Cassian’s team, and by the end of the game she’s genuinely angry at some of the calls made against them, pleased at the goals they scored, and ends up looking up rules and common game-tactics on the holo while they’re on their way to their next operation. By the time they come back, it’s nearing the regional finals, and she asks if Cassian will let her watch with him (of course he will, he’d be thrilled). By the end of the regionals, Jyn has taken to simply showing up at Cassian’s room with snacks and a slightly mad glint in her eye, and eventually, with Bodhi in tow.

The intergalactic championship arrives, and Cassian opens his door to find Jyn, Bodhi, Kay, a large bowl of some kind of crunchy baked corn, a smaller bowl of some kind of dip that Bodhi says his mother used to make (it smells a little like queso fundido, Cassian thinks, although he isn’t entirely sure), a truly enormous bag of pretzels, and wandering down the hall behind them, here comes Baze and Chirrut, who is waving and asking innocently if there’s anything interesting on the holo tonight. Baze rolls his eyes, clearly not interested in whatever shenanigans are going on but stomping in anyway. An hour later, he and Jyn are booming that the other team is cheating, Chirrut is announcing that the referee is clearly  _blind,_ Bodhi is passing around a bottle of what a kind person might call “alcohol” and a sensible one “jet fuel,” and Kay is giving a running commentary on the odds for goals, passes, interferences, and player stats. When Cassian’s team scores, they all hoot and screech and howl with joy, and sometimes Cassian also shouts, and cheers, and laughs, and (once) cries, because after a major victory, while the others are cheering and throwing that corn stuff just everywhere, Jyn leans up and kisses his cheek and whispers  _welcome home,_ and he is.


	7. 85 Questions (you heartless wretch)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this chapter was "85 questions," HOWEVER, I had already answered some of them in previous tagged posts, so this is more like 70 or so. I was tagged by [Sleepykalena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyKalena/pseuds/SleepyKalena), who knew I would turn this into a ridiculously long series of story prompts, so I will have my vengeance.
> 
> My original tumblr post is [here.](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/170201660609/85-questions-you-heartless-wretch)

**in the last year have you…**

1.        _made new friends:_  Chirrut smacks her hard across the back of her thighs with his staff – the sting is so sudden and fierce that it jolts all the way up her backside and into her thrice-damned  _teeth_  - and smiles benignly when she whirls around to glower at him. “Now see, if you were  _truly_  alone in the world,” he says placidly, “they would not be glaring at me right now,” and throws a careless gesture to where Cassian, Bodhi, and K2SO are eyeing him with varying degrees of disapproval.

2.        _fallen out of love:_  The ensign sighs and then raises his glass in a mocking toast - “ah well, I guess everyone’s gone through a bad breakup at some point, yeah?” – and Jyn lifts her glass with the rest of the bar but all she can think is  _who would ever let themselves be so vulnerable?_ (Across from her, she sees Cassian with his glass in the air and her reflection in his eyes.)

3.        _laughed until you cried:_  He can’t even remember the last time he laughed out loud at something that he genuinely thought was funny, but right now he is leaning against the bulkhead of the U Wing because his legs have gone weak and his stomach hurts almost as much as his face as he half-chokes on the laughter that he can’t seem to wrestle back into his chest where it belongs, and if he were alone right now he would be a little terrified at how easily his control has unspooled but Kay is standing just an arm’s length away and Jyn is leaning against his shoulder with her hands clamped over her mouth and her face bright red above her fingers, so perhaps, perhaps it is not so bad to close his eyes and press a little harder against the wall – “I do not,” Kay says repressively as the Princess’s astromech rolls haughtily by surrounded by it’s entourage of aggressively humming mouse droids, “see the humor.”

4.        _found out someone was talking about you:_  “It’s extremely inconvenient,” Captain Pence shakes his head and brushes a piece of lint from his precisely tailored grey jacket, “to have the whole base on lock down while our forces search for a single rebel spy.” The other officers nod in fervent agreement, voicing various opinions on the uselessness of the men currently hunting the elusive spy, and bragging about how  _they_  would surely be much more efficient, were they assigned to “neutralize” a threat to good order and galactic peace; until one turns to another and exclaims, “perhaps we should ask the fellow from Intelligence – what about it, Willix, have  _you_  any thoughts on where this scumbag might go to ground?” (“None at all,” the good captain says mildly, and accepts another drink.)

5.        _met someone who changed you:_  “Your opinion, Captain?” Draven asks from where he is still sitting with his elbow propped on the command table, Erso’s file on his knee and his eyes calculating and unreadable, “is she going to break the stalemate between us and Gerrera?” (“I think, sir,” comes the slow, measured reply, “that she is going to do a lot more than that.”

6.        _found out who your friends are:_  “They were never going to believe you,” Cassian tells her, and Jyn’s jaw clenches, her stomach curdles, her words are acid in her throat and  _it’s always like this, always the same, nothing ever changes_  – “But I do,” he adds softly, and suddenly everything is different.

7.        _kissed someone on your facebook friends list:_  “It’s just words on the holonet,” Jyn reassures Bodhi, not entirely sure why he looks so worried (and just a little disturbed), “I just want their credit accounts and password information. I’m not actually going to  _keep_ any of these promises.”

**have you ever**

1.        _dated someone twice:_  “I don’t date,” she says in a suddenly sharp voice that cuts through the teasing and leaves the rebels blinking at her in surprise.

2.        _kissed someone and regretted it:_  Command never tells him to do it, not even indirectly; Mothma would have a fit, Cracken doesn’t personally give a shit about sexuality in general, and Draven gets a pinched look on his face whenever the subject comes up, so no one ever  _tells_  Cassian that he needs to lose his virginity, but he’s a bright kid and he figures out on his own that while there’s nothing suspicious about a teen boy who blushes at dirty jokes or stumbles over certain words, it’s another thing altogether in a grown man. (In his file, the phrase most often used to praise his work is “takes the initiative,” followed closely by “thorough in his preparation.”)

3.        _been cheated on:_  “I’ve never done this,” she admits once to him in barely more than a whisper against his neck, her fingers clenching suddenly in the back of his shirt, “Never had a…had anything like this,” she stumbles and finishes lamely, jerking her chin a little on his shoulder. (“Neither have I,” he says calmly, without any shame, and is rewarded by the feel of her relaxing against him again.)

4.        _lost someone special:_  “Everybody leaves,” she tells him quietly, her eyes unfocused and her words slightly slurred, and Cassian injects the antidote into her arm without answering, because she won’t remember anything he says in the next hour or so and anyway; he’ll argue the point with her later, when she wakes up wrapped in their few ragged blankets and his bloody arms; she will have a lot of good examples to support her thesis, but he will have a hell of a counterpoint.

5.        _been depressed:_  They watch the young lieutenant crossing the hangar, slim and jarringly fragile-looking next to the hulking metal giant that follows close in his light footsteps, and Davits knows that Mothma wants to ask him just what the many hells are they  _thinking,_  sending a child with so many shadows in his eyes out again before the scars have even fully formed on his skin…and he also knows that she won’t, because then he could potentially offer up a defense, and neither of them want that.

6.        _gotten drunk and thrown up:_  “C’mon, honey, have another,” the grinning thief smacks a fourth full glass in front of Jyn, who can already feel the last three roiling in her guts like a stormy sea. The world is starting to swim in and out of focus around her, and if Saw were here he would grab her by the collar and drag her out of this battle (no, wait, that’s wrong, it’s a bar, a  _bar_ , not a  _battle_ , oh fuck, is she  _drunk?_ ) but Saw isn’t here anymore, he left her behind and she’s cold and filthy and hungry and these people are paying for the drinks so fuck it, she reaches for the fourth before her stomach decides to save her from her own bad decisions and she heaves all over the table. (Later, she will understand the expression on the man’s face just before it was replaced with disgust, and she will be grateful that she ruined his mood before he could ruin her.)

**general**

1.        _how many of your facebook friends do you know irl:_  “You have… _how_  many different accounts on NebulaNet?” (“Twenty-three different identities,” he shrugs, smiling a little at her incredulous expression; “it’s a useful way to keep track of certain persons of interest without having to actually meet any of them face to face.”)

2.        _do you have any pets:_  “I’m bringing them  _both_ ,” she repeats stubbornly, staring him straight in the eyes and resting one hand on her blaster, the other on her truncheon. Cassian knows that stance (admires it, loves it, is just a little bit exasperated by it), and though he waits a beat just in case, he knows that ultimately it is useless and he has lost. “Fine,” he sighs, and shakes his head, “but I don’t know how you plan to keep even one big dog on Hoth, let alone two.”

3.        _do you want to change your name:_  Mama used to call him a nickname, some sweet and childish derivation of his real first name, and sometimes (when the aliases and the cover stories start to melt and meld together in his head and he struggles to sort out which name goes with which persona) he tries to remember what it was.

4.        _what time did you wake up today:_  Of all the terrible things Jyn learns about Cassian, all the brutal truths and hard choices, the only one that ever really bothers her is the horrible discovery that he is, of all fucking things, a  _morning_  person.

5.        _what were you doing at midnight last night:_  “Cleaning my rifle,” Baze says with such hard finality that the laughter cuts off immediately, and Bodhi feels a swell of anxiety and regret in his chest because he had only meant it as a joke, but oh, it had been so long since he had teased anyone and he didn’t know where the lines were any more, clearly, and Baze has always been such a solid and comforting friend, he did not deserve Bodhi’s callous cruelty – “Were we?” says Chirrut cheerfully into the small silence, “Is  _that_ what the youth are calling it these days?” and he nudges Bodhi hard in the ribs as he laughs loudly enough to cover the incoherent grumbling coming from Baze’s bristling beard.

6.        _what is something you can’t wait for:_  Someone who has spent her life in near isolation should probably not find a few days of being on her own to be as devastating as she does, but she’s antsy by the first hour of her mission and practically jumping out of her skin by the end of the week  -  _codependant_ , she thinks is the word, but Jyn’s never cared much about vocabulary and by the time she makes it to the bottom of her shuttle ramp and into Cassian’s embrace, she’s forgotten the term entirely.

7.        _what are you listening to right now:_  Sometimes – not often, hardly ever, really, but  _sometimes_  – for no reason that she can tell, Cassian will hum to himself. She never interrupts, never points it out afterwards, but she swears to herself that someday she will figure out the tune.

 _8._ _have you ever talked to a person named tom:_  “If that  _grancha sleemo_ Tomy tries to sell some kid a packet of spice cut with rat droppings one more time,” Jyn storms into their ship and slams the packet of datafiles onto the table in front of him, “I am going to break every bone in his grubby little fingers. I don’t care how valuable he is to the op.”

9.        _something that’s getting on your nerves:_  “It is not my function,” Kay informs giggling organics for the twenty-fifth time, “to monitor the captain’s choice regarding romantic partners. And if it were,” he adds as he clumps between them, calculating correctly that they will scatter to avoid his heavy metal feet, “I would not divulge that information to any individual without the appropriate clearance.”

10.    _most visited website:_  It says something about them, Cassian muses, when the first question that Jyn asks as she reads over his shoulder is the same one that _he_  asked the first time he found this holonet site over fifteen years ago - “Why do they have to write a twenty page poetic riff about their lovely childhood,” she grumbles, “before they get to the actual fucking recipe?”

11.    _hair colour:_  The first thing she does after she escapes Rishi Imperial Prison is dump a packet of green hair dye on her head and in her eyebrows, and spends the hour it takes to dry contemplating how else to alter her appearance enough so that the shivering teenage girl who huddled in the jail cell will be erased from the galaxy, as if she never existed, as if she was never afraid. (The last thing he does before he walks into Dathomir Imperial Prison is carefully rub the sandy brown dye into his scalp and eyebrows, the final touch that turns him into the boring, nondescript low-level sergeant who has only stopped by to pick up that rebel scum slated for execution, and he spends the hour it takes to dry reminding himself over and over that if he lets his nerves get the better of him now, a good man will die.)

12.    _long or short hair:_  “I should have cut it off,” she says, and though her voice is even, Cassian can hear the undercurrent of uncertainty, “but my mother used to keep hers long,” Jyn rushes the next words a little, her unruffled expression cracking around the edges, “So I guess I just wanted…” she trails off, and Cassian kisses her hand and lets the silence comfort them both.

13.    _do you have a crush on someone:_  It is Bodhi, of all people, who catches him first; “I don’t get why you don’t just kiss her already,” the pilot says mildly one night as they are fixing the shuttle’s temperature controls, and Cassian nearly knocks over his toolkit because he’s been so  _careful_ , even Draven has never once so much as  _insinuated_  that he guessed at the truth. “Then she can stop looking so sad when you don’t,” Bodhi adds without even looking up from his wires, and a moment later he is humming to himself as if nothing extraordinary has just happened, as if he hasn’t just flipped Cassian’s world on it’s ear.

14.    _what do you like about yourself:_  “Hey, boga-fucker,” Jyn unhooks her hardest truncheon and unleashes her sharpest grin, the rush of blood in her veins and the lovely, tight shiver of anticipation in her chest, “wanna dance?”

15.    _any piercings?:_  “Several, over the years,” Cassian says casually, and Bodhi stares at him because…seriously? “Some planets have whole social coding or caste systems that are signaled by piercings,” he explains, “and it’s nothing that bacta can’t usually close back up again when I’m done.”

16.    _blood type:_  She isn’t particularly surprised to learn that, like everything else, the rebellion runs low on blood (even the synth stuff, because the equipment is fiddly and fragile and medical maintenance people are even harder to find than the equipment itself), so she doesn’t waste time bitching about it when they tell her they are out of Cassian’s type. She jerks up her sleeve and holds out her arm, “I’m a universal donor,” she bites out impatiently at the medic’s startled face, “hook me in.”

17.    _nicknames:_  She was  _Stardust_ , once, but nothing else, never again – and he has been so many people that he holds the precious little time that he is  _Cassian_  as sacred.

18.    _relationship status:_  “No thanks,” she tells the smiling pilot as he leans against the bar next to her, and he pouts a little until Cassian walks up next to her and orders his own drink; the pilot eyes the narrow gap between them and then sighs and turns his charms elsewhere.

19.    _your zodiac_   _sign:_  “Why,” Cassian asks carefully, glancing at the datapad in her lap like he half-expects it to come to life and attack him, “do you ask?” (Jyn smiles with all her sharp teeth and leans back in the co-pilot’s chair, because three days ago he pinned her to the bed and refused to let her up, crowing victory over the “big bad Partisan,” so Shara gave her a library of hilariously awkward old magazine quizzes, and now he’s trapped with her in this tiny shuttle for six hours and he’s going to answer  _every one_.)

20.    _pronouns:_  “I presented as a boy for the first three years I ran with Partisans,” Jyn shrugs and props her feet on the narrow bench, resting her sabaac cards on her knees, “and I went back and forth and in between a couple times while I was on my own. Its never really mattered to me. Whatever gave me the advantage at the time.”

21.    _fave tv shows:_  It doesn’t actually bother him that Jyn consistently refers to it as “the cooking show,” because the amusement in her face when he corrects her still sends a tiny thrill through him (she likes joking with him, she thinks he’s funny, she has a fucking  _beautiful_  smile), and he doesn’t even mind when she gets Bodhi to jokingly misname it too. But then one day after a briefing, Mon Mothma comments in a pleasant tone that she hopes he enjoys watching “that cooking show your partner mentioned” with his crew, and Cassian glares at said partner across the room the moment the Senator has drifted on her way. (She smirks at him without a trace of apology, and he wonders if he could manage to pin her again.)

22.    _tattoos:_  “What, permanently?” Jyn looks aghast at the very notion, Cassian simply lifts an eyebrow, and Bodhi reflects that he should have known better than to ask two people who have spent their lives in the shadows if they would willingly put identifying marks on their bodies.

23.    _right or left handed:_  Jyn is right handed, Cassian has a slight preference for his left – it makes the few sparring matches she can wheedle him into that much more interesting for the both of them.

24.    _ever had surgery:_  There is a scar on Jyn’s hip that she cannot account for; she does not remember where she acquired it, and in her fleeting thoughts she assumes it is from some forgotten battle, some terrible injury – in reality, it happened when she was a child, a victim of a terrible illness that made her leg septic and forced the medics to cut her open to drain it out while her father paced and tugged on his hair and her mother sat still as an statue, her eyes boring into the surgeon’s back with an intensity that gave the man nightmares for months after.

25.    _i’m about to watch:_  “It’s a game,” Bodhi explained, tilting his datapad so she could see better, “A fantasy game where you play as this escaped prisoner - ” (hah, no kidding?) “ – who fights dragons and giants and um, everything, really – ” (…interesting)  “ – and you mostly run around solving people’s problems - ” (less interesting, but familiar) “ – and eventually you have to go into the, um, the afterlife and kill the World Eater before he can, you know, destroy the planet.” (definitely familiar) “Oh, and um, “ Bodhi grins a little sheepishly at her, “you can actually shout someone to death, if you’re angry enough.” (Jyn settles down to watch over his shoulder.)

26.    _waiting for:_  She’s late, only by two hours, granted, and the “arrival” time listed on her mission gives a five hour block so realistically she’s still got three more hours before he should really start worrying, but Cassian is excellent at compartmentalizing and terrible at letting things go once he started to pick at them, so he leans against a nearby crate and tells himself not to run through every way her op could go wrong without him. (He gets to Bad Scenario #34 before the shuttle lands and the ramp opens and she is finally, finally in his arms again.)

27.    _want:_  Jyn sighs in her sleep and the warmth cascades across the back of his neck, she stretches a moment later and the movement rolls her body all along his spine; she is all soft curves and hard muscle and breathtaking trust in him, and Cassian spends the next hour or so counting his breaths and running through some of Kay’s most complex slicing codes. (It almost works, until she curves herself closer and brushes her lips against the bare skin of his neck and half his nerves light up like fireworks in the dark of his room.)

28.    _get married:_  “We can file joint reports,” Cassian tells her slowly, like he’s not entirely sure that is a good reason, like he’s not entirely sure he needs a good reason. “Anything to make the paperwork easier,” Jyn shrugs, and doesn’t think too hard about it afterwards.

29.    _career:_  “What would you be,” she asks him abruptly one night, her voice cutting through the stillness of their room so suddenly that he almost jumps -  “if you weren’t this, I mean,” she adds, and Cassian opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

**which is better**

1.        _hugs or kisses:_  Jyn loves kissing him, loves the way he reacts when she presses her mouth to his throat and his ear and his shoulder and… (Jyn likes to pull him on top of her in the cold of Hoth, her arms curled around his shoulders and back, his weight partially pressing her down against the mattress, and honestly, Cassian could live like this.)

2.        _lips or eyes:_  Jyn stares at him as he licks his lips, again, and wonders if he’s doing it on purpose, if he has any idea what it makes her think about when he does, if he’ll stop if she dares to say anything about it. (Cassian can feel her looking at him sometimes, as bright and sharp as the blades she tucks into her sleeve and her boot, and he wonders if she knows how deeply she can cut him with just a look, if she knows how badly he sometimes wishes she would.)

3.        _shorter or taller:_  She jumps onto a step to glare at him on eye level, but the move is so marked that it derails them both from what they were about to snap at each other, and the next thing he knows, he has an arm full of laughing Jyn and he neither remembers nor cares about…whatever they were arguing about.

4.        _older or younger:_  Jyn teases him about being so much older than her (all of three years, he's practically her elder), he snipes back that if that’s the case, then she ought to listen more often to his old and wise council.

5.        _nice arms or stomach:_  Jyn’s arms are defined by ragged scars and smooth muscle, and the first time Cassian sees her in the tight, sleeveless shirt she wears for their sparring sessions, his stomach tightens in a way that is not wholly related to anticipation of his forthcoming defeat. (After the match, he pulls off his sweat-soaked and ripped shirt to swipe at his face; Jyn catches sight of dark hair drawing a soft line down his navel and below his belt, and her fingers itch to follow the trail.)

6.        _hookup or relationship:_  “I don’t,” she says sharply, but the brutal edge from before is gone now that there is no one to hear except Cassian, “I don’t go on  _dates._ ” (“I have been on several,” he says quietly, his eyes trained on the datapad in his hands even as he makes a vague gesture with it that encompasses them both, “but I like this better.”)

7.        _troublemaker or hesitant:_ She smiles like a loth-cat about to devour the Imperial canary, and Cassian doesn’t bother to hide the way it sets his soul alight when his eyes meet hers. “It’s a really nice base,” he says almost conversationally, his fingers tight on his blaster as the ‘troopers run past outside. Jyn leans forward and kisses him, hard, and whispers against his lip, “let’s go burn it down.”

**have you ever**

1.        _kissed a stranger:_ _They were all strangers_ , Jyn thinks, and throws back another shot.

2.        _drank hard liquor:_  The alcohol-neutralizing patch stuck to the roof of his mouth turns the whiskey into sour water; Cassian gulps it down without flinching and slams the empty glass in front of his impressed contact, who guffaws in delight and hands him another passkey. “One more,” he demands, holding up another passkey in his left hand and yet another bottle of some foul brew in his right. “C’mon, Aach, I never seen a bloke who could drain ‘em like you, so we’ll waive the fee if you pull that trick again.” (Cassian drinks three more bottles, collects enough data to make the analysts happy for a month, and walks out of the cantina with a steady step until he finally gets to his hotel room, where he spends the next twelve hours curled in a ball of misery on the ‘fresher floor, sweating and vomiting and cursing Takodana smugglers with all of his beating-too-rapidly heart.)

3.        _turned someone down/broken someone’s heart:_  The Natoor mission was a phenomenal success - he brings back eight new supply lines, three whole ships, two datapads bursting with current Imperial trade data, and even the wide-eyed daughter of the Imperial governor, who agrees to give the Alliance everything she knows about her father’s estate. Cassian gets a commendation in his file and, wonder of wonders, an approving hand shake from Draven. He doesn’t smile, however, simply nods and accepts the praise without comment. (He doesn’t smile that night, either, when the wide-eyed daughter knocks on his door and offers him exactly what he pretended to want while they were on Natoor. And when she discovers that the intense, sympathetic man who had listened to all her problems and made her feel important and necessary and heroic is…not the man standing in the open doorway now, and not particularly interested in solving all her problems any more, he simply nods and accepts the insults and the tears without comment.)

4.        _sex on first date:_  “You always start a firefight on the first date, Tanith?” The gun-runner she has agreed to work with for this job laughs as she dives to the ground, dragging him down with her to avoid the incoming blaster fire. “Or am I just lucky?” He wraps his arms around her and rolls to the side, throwing them off the pier and into the water, until their pursuers get tired of searching and leave. She’s freezing and wet and pissed off at the failed job – her anger and her hunger ignite something hot and restless that burns under her skin - so she follows him home when he offers to give her fresh clothes and slams him up against the wall when he offers to take off her wet ones. (“Guess I’m lucky after all,” he jokes, warm and eager and too reliant on his blaster to be a threat to her in close quarters, so Jyn bites his lip to stop the grating sound of his laugh and lets him peel her soaked clothes off and warm her frozen blood again.)

5.        _had your heart broken:_  “I was just, uh, running to the shop, babe,” he says an hour later, when she catches him trying to sneak out while she’s in the ‘fresher. “Not much here, but make yourself at home,” he smiles widely, unaware that she can practically see the lies forming in the air between his teeth as he says, “I’ll be right back, and I hope you’ll still be here when I do, yeah?” (He won’t and he doesn’t, and she knew that before he ever opened his mouth, but all the same she feels a tiny piece of her heart wither inside because it’s always like this, nobody ever even tries to stay, not even a goddamn one night stand, not even - ) “But hey, next date’s on me, babe,” he laughs as he pushes open the door.

6.        _been arrested:_  In his official file, Cassian J. Andor has fifty-seven successful operations: thirty-two sabotages, twelve recruiting missions, eight long-term infiltrations, and five counter-intelligence operations that resulted in the capture or termination of an Imperial spy in Alliance forces. (The unofficial count is, of course, much higher, but that is neither here nor there). None of this earns him any particular respect among the few members of Intel privy to this sort of information – it is a relatively standard file, in Rebel Intel. What earns him the respectful tones, the awed glances, the hushed comments when he passes by, the lowest number in his file; out of all the operatives, he is the only one with a zero next to “captured/compromised.”

7.        _cried when someone died:_  Jyn doesn’t cry when her mother dies –  _children_  cry, and Saw tells her that she can no longer be a child, she must be brave, she must be strong, she must be the blade that cuts the Empire open (five days later, she combs out her braids for the first time since her mother put them in, and her eyes are hot and wet and sticky for hours afterwards, but she is brave and strong and she will be the blade that rips the Empire open, so she  _does not cry_ ). Cassian cries when his mother dies – he is six years old and there is no one to stop him, so he buries his small chubby face in her still chest and sobs for several minutes until he hears the tread of boots outside (five hours later, his eyes are dry and his jaw is set and his first blaster is in his hands, and he never feels particularly brave or strong again but at least he has found an alternative to tears).

8.        _fallen for a friend:_  Jyn figures out how to add a biometric lock coded to his genetic material to his datapad just to see him smile when he finds it, Cassian shoves a new set of gloves into her pack when hers fray into rags; even if she wasn’t  _in_ _love_  with him, Jyn muses as she stretches her fingers inside the durable material, she’d probably still love him.

**last**

1.        _phone call:_  “Climb,” his companion says, calm and methodical as he always is; “Climb,” his droid orders, imperious and demanding, as he was never meant to be; “Climb,” his friend begs, determined and loyal, as he will continue to be, until the last circuit sparks and the line goes silent.

2.        _text message:_  TRANSMITTING DATA, the letters flash on the small screen, each the size of her smallest fingernail (but the letters are sharp and unbroken and clean, nothing like her fingernails, nothing like her at all) – TRANSMITTING DATA flashes again, then a loading icon, twenty percent, thirty, forty, and she stares at it with her heart pounding in her ears and her whole world focused down on the clean, unbroken letters, fifty percent, sixty, seventy – Cassian groans, a soft, broken sound barely audible over the shattering howl of the war around them, but she hears it, and the letters suddenly don’t matter anymore (eighty percent, ninety, DATA TRANSMITTED but she doesn’t see it, already staggering towards the open elevator with her whole world focused down on the filthy, broken features of someone who came back.)

3.        _song you listened to:_  It swells around him, an orchestra of violent crescendos punctuated with small, sudden silences, this fight was always intended, the melody long ago woven into the neverending symphony of purpose; Chirrut tunes out the sizzle of blaster fire and the crunch of sand beneath his toes, and he marches in time to the drumbeat that has been waiting for him all his life towards the solo note he was born to play.

4.        _time you cried:_  “This is for you, Galen,” Bodhi murmurs, and the signal crackles in his ear - it’s working, it’s  _working! –_ and he feels the sting in his eyes and the rush of blood to his cheeks but there is no shame in this weeping, no fear and no pain, only the joy of success in the face of terrible odds, the relief of knowing that he has done what needed to be done.

5.        _drink:_  There is salt dripping in his mouth, it lacks the sharp edge of blood or the sour tang of sweat, so he thinks it is either salt water or her tears, sliding along the press of her cheek against his, and he’s a selfish person for hoping it’s the latter, but no one’s ever cried for him before and no one ever will again, so he closes his eyes and he  _hopes_

**other**

1.        _fave actor_  –  

“She wrote it for the op,” Cassian says with a trace of puzzlement in his voice, looking up at Bodhi over the broken down parts of his rifle. “That actor just happened to be on the holo when she was writing it.”

“So it’s totally random that she picked  _this_  guy to gush over?” Bodhi holds up the holo under which Jyn has written a particularly flowery rant that on the surface appears to be a declaration of adoration by an obsessive fan, but can be decoded by the right people to reveal a plethora of valuable information about their current operation. In the holo, the actor turns his head to better display his sharp jawline and flashes a dimpled smile at the camera.

“Of course,” Cassian replies, already turning back to his own work.

Bodhi glances from the dark-eyed, dark haired actor to the dark-haired, dark eyed spy, and then back to the holo for a long, thoughtful moment. “Totally random,” he repeats, and then snorts and tosses the holo aside. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I continued my tradition of slipping "real" answers to some of the questions in here, but I'm not telling you which ones are really me answering, and which ones are headcanons I have for these characters. It isn't really relevant anyway.


	8. made up story titles (part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reblogged a "send me a title for a story, and I'll tell you what story I would write for that title" thing for Rogue One. I got some really awesome titles - and for a not insignificant portion of my responses, I just went ahead and wrote a short story/snippet for them. Here's some of them.

**Bases Loaded** [suggested by @sleepykalena]

[background Rebelcaptain, vague references to Bodhi Rook's Scarif injuries]

 

“Delta Base,” Bodhi guessed, tossing his squishy blue therapy ball up into the air and catching it again with a triumphant smile. Nineteen catches in a row! His hand-eye coordination was really coming along these days. “Cassian prefers Delta Base. It’s not as,” he shivered, “you know.”

He threw the ball up and caught it again. Twenty!

“I assume you are referring to the non-survivable low temperatures of Echo Base,” K2SO said, his metal hands poking almost gingerly at the metal cutout shapes that Cassian had laid out on the little freighter’s galley table. Kay had complained at the time that droids did not suffer from the organic inability to occupy themselves with meaningful thought (a phrase that Chirrut had apparently taught him), and thus did not need “external stimulation” while they waited for Jyn and Cassian to return from their errand. All the same, Kay had grudgingly started putting the little metal puzzle pieces together an hour ago, and he hadn’t budged from that spot since.

“I’m referring to the frozen hellhole that is Hoth,” Bodhi muttered. “Which Cassian hates even more than the rest of us. He’ll have some reason we should go to Delta Base instead.”

“Cassian is an experienced operative,” Kay began a touch fussily, always quick to defend Cassian from the slightest perceived insult when he wasn’t there to do it himself (although just as quick to inform his friend of every possible mistake when he  _was_  around). 

“And he hates cold, that’s fine,” Bodhi threw the ball up again, and fumbled it a little, but still a solid catch. Twenty-one! A new record!

“Jyn will likely suggest Charlie Base,” Kay said after a beat, snapping a little metal piece into place with probably too much force for it to be natural. Bodhi squinted at the puzzle, but there was no picture or designs etched onto the blank metal pieces, so he had no idea what it was supposed to end up looking like. Was that Cassian’s idea of a joke, or busy work for Kay? Sometimes, Bodhi just did not get how that man’s mind worked.

“I hope not Charlie Base,” Bodhi tossed the ball up again - but it slipped from his fingers on the way down and bounced onto the floor. He sighed and reached for it, restarting his mental count. “Charlie Base is just…gross.”

“That is the disadvantage of an organic olfactory sense paired with evolved biological responses to certain chemical combinations,” Kay said archly, bending a metal puzzle piece between his fingers and then snapping it harshly to another piece. “I don’t have a sense of smell,” he added with some satisfaction.

“Swamps stink,” Bodhi agreed. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.” He pointed at the bent puzzle piece. 

“Cassian said to solve the puzzle. He did not specify the manner of the solution.”

“Right.” Bodhi threw his therapy ball up again, and caught it. One. “So why do you think Jyn will want to go back to Charlie Base?”

“Because she has requisitioned a present for Cassian and will need to pick it up there.”

Bodhi fumbled his ball again, and cursed mildly as he had to chase it across the freighter floor. “A present? What did she get him?”

Kay set two metal puzzle pieces next to one another on the table and then slammed his heavy fist over them, forcing them to wedge tight together. “I was unable to determine,” he said at last.

Bodhi laughed, toss, catch. One. “She hid it from you, the nosiest droid in the rebellion?”

“We have already established that I l do not have a nose.”

“So when they get back, and Jyn tries to talk Cassian into going to Charlie base and he tries to talk her into going to Delta Base,” Bodhi said thoughtfully. Toss, Catch. Two. His therapist would be thrilled. “We should agree with Jyn.”

“We should agree with whichever presents the most compelling strategic reason for going to the base of their choice.”

Bodhi grinned at him. Toss. Catch. Three. “Unless you want to know what Jyn got Cassian.”

Bodhi managed four more successful catches before Kay finally gave a disgruntled little whir and said, “Charlie Base has better oil baths.”

Bodhi laughed. “Yeah, I really want to know, too.”

* * *

 

 **In der Stille fängt das Chaos an** [suggested by @crazy-fruit]

[rebelcaptain, no warnings apply]

 

Cassian and Jyn are thirty seven seconds away from death and they don’t even know it. 

Thirty-seven seconds - that’s how long they have until the slicing program finishes on the door, that’s how long it will take to break through the locks and get them back out in the streets beyond the wall of this Imperial complex. Jyn’s fingers are tight around the slicing scanner plugged into the door, Cassian’s sharp gaze is directed over her head, watching the guard tower above them. 

There is no sound in the darkness but their steady breathing and the faint whir of Jyn’s device; even the evening sea breeze has stilled. The outer security lights blaze out into the night, but down here by the side door there is a little pocket of pure darkness, illuminated only by the faintest glow of Jyn’s screen, and the even fainter reflection of it in her eyes. She’s bent over the screen, her face intent, her fingers poised on the buttons as she waits for the lock timer to run out (thirty seven seconds until they die, but to her it’s just the time left until her program does it’s job, thirty seven seconds until she and her partner are home free). Behind her, Cassian is practically a statue, his head tilted upward and his hand resting against her shoulder as he waits for her signal.

The clock ticks down to thirty-six seconds, and that - at last - is when Cassian sees what is coming for them. His hand clamps down on Jyn’s shoulder, and she turns to look up at him, but her eyes catch instead on the shadow looming over head and for another precious second, they both stand there, frozen.

Thirty five seconds.

And then Jyn rips the cords from the door, Cassian grabs her hand, and without a word, they bolt into the darkness as the sirens overhead start to blare.

 

* * *

 

 **Turnabout** [suggested by @atthelamppost]

[rebelcaptain, no warnings apply]

 

“Be careful, Sergeant,” Cassian warns, struggling to keep his voice even and his face neutral. The light in her eyes has already burned through all his other defenses, the only thing he has is this thin veneer of detachment, and he clings to it desperately. “Turnabout is - “

“A bitch,” she cuts in glibly, licking the dripped sauce off the side of her hand with relish and watching him with wary delight over her sticky fingers. Fingers that are sticky in more than one sense, because she stole his food right out of his hand while he was distracted with…other things, and judging from her triumphant smile, she clearly thinks that she has been extraordinarily clever. “I’ve heard that one before,  _Captain_.”

“I was going to say “fair play,”” Cassian admonishes, and tells himself that if he blushes like a schoolboy right now, she will never let him live it down. He may never let  _himself_   live it down. Not one year ago, an operative he had worked with had written “Captain Andor is made of equal parts dedication, iron resolve, and carved ice.” He had just successfully hunted down an Alliance traitor, an Imperial spy who had wormed his way into mid-echelon operations and needed to die before he could get back to his masters. Cassian had handled that in less than a day, and earned a file full of accolades that were half praise half warning. 

And now he sat here trying not to look like a teenager with a crush on the pretty girl stealing things directly from his fingers. 

“Sounds like a threat, droid boy,” Jyn’s smile turns sharp around the corners, the light in her eyes dancing, and Cassian swallows and orders his face not to flush,  _so help me, don’t you dare -_

“You sound nervous, thief,” he says evenly (no, she does not, not in the slightest), “afraid I’ll back it up?”

Jyn leans forward on her clean, non-sticky hand and lets him see the full glory of her grin. “Alright then, Cassian,” she laughs, and -  _mierda_  - his face feels hot. “Show me what you got.”

 

* * *

 

 

 **That was the river, this is the sea** : (suggested by @imsfire2)

[Rebelcaptain, non-explicit references to grief/loss/child-soldiers]

 

Once upon a time, Jyn Erso understands love. She is eight, and love is Mama’s hands combing through her rain-wild hair and tucking the braids in neat with an extra pat to her cheek for being good. Love is cuddling up to Papa’s side and solving his little number puzzles in the picture-books full of gears and energy lines. Love is SE-2′s patient mechanized voice grinding out “Erso, Jyn. This unit requests that you experience a pleasant birthday celebration.” Love is her parents chasing her through the mud with bath towels and silly fake scowls, love is lumpy stew that makes Mama’s mouth turn down in disappointment but Papa kisses her hand and eats it anyway. Love is rain and grass and the quiet evenings with only whir of SE-2′s servos to break the silence of their thoughts. Love is soft and peaceful and vast as the empty fields, a thing that grows like a flower in her cupped hands. 

Once upon a time, Cassian Andor understands love. He is six, and love is Papa picking him up and throwing him into the air high, higher, even when he has been bent over his desk working hard all day. He has an uncle with the same name (’Big Cassian,’ they all call him, and Cassian is ‘little Cassian,’ or ‘the short Cassian’ or sometimes, ‘baby Cassian’), and love is when Uncle Cassian lets him climb up on the workbench and use his big tools to help rebuild all the droids that got smashed up by the Jedi. Love is his big brother calling him over to play fútbol with all his cousins, even though he is smallest and slowest and so, so clumsy. Love is Auntie Sophie making that strange sweet pie from her home planet and letting him eat a piece while Papa isn’t looking, and then dramatically claiming that some ghost must have crept into the house and stolen her pie when Papa starts to ask where it has gone. Love is loud and bright and bellowing like a crowd at a game match, a thing that wraps around his shoulders like a warm blanket against the winter chill.

Once upon a time, Jyn and Cassian understand love as any child does - simple and unquestionable, as permanent as the stars. 

It does not last, of course it cannot; they are children in the midst of a war, and war is not kind to children. Jyn’s flower is torn from the fields is sprouted, carried far away and nourished not with water but with blood. Cassian’s blanket burns with the rest of his home, and he replaces the riotous laughter with the steady whine of the blaster. Jyn learns that love can also be the rough hand of her commander throwing her over his hip and then demanding that she copy the motion back on him, over and over until she is covered in bruises but never likely to be grabbed from behind again. Cassian learns that love can be the brief notation on the bottom of his briefing report: _Exercise Caution,_ written in the neat uncompromising hand of his taciturn superior. As they grow and suffer and survive anyway, their understanding of love grows and suffers and survives with them. Love is giving up a spot at the local shelter to a kid that looks even more starved than Jyn. Love is carrying a suicide pill next to his throat so that he can never be forced to betray the people who rely on him.

And then, at last, at long, long last, love is his warm arm around her waist when the crowds push in too close and raises all her hackles. Love is her truncheon in the eye of the bastard trying to capture him. Love is a new scarf draped carefully around her shoulders by cautious, gentle hands. Love is a thick pair of sturdy gloves shoved into his pocket without a word. Love is an argument about the best way to handle an objective, it is finding their way back to one another in a rioting city, it is teaching each other their favorite curses and their best fighting moves, it is laughing at the people who are convinced they would be amazing together if they would just stop being so professional all the time (and then sneaking a kiss when those people walk off irritated with their stubbornness). Love is in the wild, desperate moments when their lives and their cause all hang on the line and they cling to each other with desperation and wordless promises. Love is in the long stretches of boring grunt work where they have to remember to stop whatever paperwork they are caught up in to talk to one another for awhile. 

Once upon a time, Jyn and Cassian understand love as any person does - complex and demanding, and less a permanent fixture as it was a continuous cycle, sunrise rather than stars. 

It doesn’t last, of course, it cannot; nothing is immortal and all things must eventually flow back to the Force. 

But for Jyn and Cassian, at least, it lasts a long, long time.


	9. made up story titles (part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more of these "send me a title, I'll make up a story" things that turned out to be story ficlets rather than just summaries.

**easy come, easy go** [suggested by @doptimous]

[no warnings apply, except for Queen, which will now play in your head nonstop for at least three days. You are welcome.]

 

Erso [1002]: what’s a fandango?

Andor [1002]: I believe it’s a dance. Why?

Erso [1003]: solo was singing a song about it at that morale party the princess set up

Andor [1004]: That party was three days ago.

Erso [1004]: I KNOW

Erso [1005]: its still in my head. I don’t even know the [PROFANITY FILTER] words

Erso [1006]: what’s a scaramoush? scaramooch? 

Andor [1007]: I have no idea.

Erso [1007]: this is the stupidest song in the history of [PROFANITY FILTER] galaxy

Erso [1245]: I’m going to kill solo. just so you know.

Andor [1246]: We can’t leave for our mission until tomorrow. 

Erso [1247] nope can’t wait kill him now

Erso [1248]: only way to purge the damn song

Andor [1249]: Well, I’ll do my best, but the logistics aren’t ideal.

Erso [1250]: we’ll manage. thanks

Andor [1251]: Any time.

 

* * *

 

 

 **White Flag** [suggested by @literatiruinedme]

[rebelcaptain, no warnings apply]

 

If he were a more poetic man, Cassian would probably say that Jyn always felt so warm to the touch because the fire of her spirit was so fierce that it flooded through her physical being and warmed all who stood near her. 

Actually, he  _did_  say something like that once, late in the cold Hoth night when she was teasing him for huddling so close to her under the blankets. The temperature had been brutal that night, and the cold had wormed it’s way deep into his bones. Jyn hadn’t seemed bothered at all, and her skin had been warm as a water bottle against him. She’d poked at his ribs in that one spot that always made him squirm, and called him a fragile flower as he batted her hand away. 

Cassian had retaliated by wrapping his legs around her knees to pin her in place and trapping her arms against his chest (a full body pin that she probably regretted teaching him but he absolutely did not regret using at every possible chance). And once she was truly stuck beneath him, he had really started the torture: he had complimented her with the most flowery and ridiculous phrases he could invent. He told her she was beautiful as the Corellian sunlight refracting through the glistening clouds (”clouds of  _pollution_ ,” she grumbled, wiggling to get away and growling when he only pinned her tighter), he told her she was as delicately fragrant as the summer-blossoms of the Naboo Spring Festival (”call me delicate again and I will break your teeth, Andor”). He’d said a lot of stupid things that night, but the stupidest had been at the end, when she’d been just about to break free and he’d been struggling to hold her down without taking a knee to the gut (she wouldn’t really hurt him, but she also wouldn’t let him forget that she had beat him, either). 

“Your hair is as soft as the dreams of a baby porg,” he told her in a mock-grave voice, chuckling at the utterly exasperated grunt she gave in response. “And your feet as dainty as the wings of a butterfly.”

“My feet,” she replied flatly. “Seriously? My  _feet? That does it.”_

And then she had flipped him, tangling them both thoroughly in the blankets and, eventually, their discarded clothes. Cassian had finally gone to sleep thoroughly warmed through, and thought no more about it save as a fond sort of memory. Jyn, on the other hand, had apparently gotten stuck on the feet thing.

So the next night, when he crawled into the bed and curled close to his favorite personal heater, Jyn had given him a wicked grin and asked politely if he would mind returning the favor. Like an idiot, he had agreed without thinking, and then yelped like a kicked dog when she stuck her  _ice cold feet_ against his shins. It felt like chunks of Hoth’s unforgiving surface carved out and pressed against his legs. “What were you  _doing,_ patrolling without boots?” 

“Waiting for you,” she said innocently. Then her grin faltered slightly, though her tone was still light. “Too much for you to handle?” 

He heard the real question underneath ( _should I leave?_ ), felt her heart stutter and pick up pace against his chest, and ridiculously, felt a small spike of fear run through him in response. A little faster than was strictly casual, he hooked his leg over her ( _joder,_  really,  _really_  cold) feet and tucked her head under his chin. “You’ll have to try harder than that,” he murmured into her hair. “The rest of you is warm enough to make up for it, though.”

“Good,” she laughed against his throat a little unsteadily. Then her toes (her awful, frozen toes, sweet Force did she have  _frostbite?_  should he check her for frostbite?) curled against his leg playfull. Smugly, she murmured, “Try comparing  _that_ to a bug.”

“Later,” he muttered back, and pulled her in tighter.

* * *

 

 **Wet Paint** [suggested by @ruby-red-inky-blue]

[no warnings apply]

 

“Tell a man that there are a hundred billion stars in the galaxy,” Baze mutters, “and he believes you. Tell him the paint is wet, and _he has to touch it._ ”

“I don’t feel any wet paint,” Chirrut replies innocently. “In fact, this wall full of very interesting buttons feels quite dry.”

Baze glares at him. “It was a metaphor, and you know it.”

Chirrut smiles. “Now I wonder,” he asks meditatively, his hand wandering along the console. Baze watches him with suspicion, but the truth is, he doesn’t know anything more about this machine than Chirrut possibly can, sight or no sight. “What does  _this_  button do?”

If they all die in this stupid place, Baze thinks as the alarms overhead suddenly begin to blare, because of a madman with access to too many buttons - Cassian is never going to let them hear the end of it.

_[Synopsis: Baze knows this, a truth as unshakable as the all the Pillars of Creation: Never tell Chirrut that he can’t do something. It will not end well.]_

 

 **The Houseplant** [suggested by @ruby-red-inky-blue]

[no warnings apply]

 

“I am  _not_ ,” Jyn hisses, “going to be a  _maid_.”

“House hand,” Cassian corrects mildly without looking up from his datapad. “And if all goes well, you’ll be in and out in less than a day.” he glances up and smirks at her, knowing full well that he is within range of her throwing arm. Sometimes she thinks that man has no sense of self preservation at all. “You’ll hardly have to clean a thing.”

“I’ll clean your clock,” she threatens, then grimaces as he laughs. 

“Jyn Erso, terror of the underworld,” he comments, then ducks as Jyn tosses a datapad stylus at his stupid face. 

_[Synopsis: It’s a simple objective, really - steal a harddrive from a wealthy Imperial collaborator before he can sell the contents to the Empire’s weapons’ division. Cassian comes up with a simple plan to achieve it. For Jyn, however, this day turns out to be anything but simple.]_

 

 **She Doesn’t Bite (hardly at all these days)** [suggested by @ruby-red-inky-blue]

[no warnings apply]

 

“And this is Jyn,” Bodhi says with a sweep of his hand and a smile, the way Jyn has heard people say “and this is my prize black diamond” or “this is the wave of the future!” There is sweetness and pride in Bodhi’s face, open and unashamed pleasure at her company in his voice. All of Jyn’s prickly irritation flattens and dies in an instant, replaced with a sort of sheepish happiness. She can’t really remember the last time anyone sounded proud of her. She definitely can’t remember the last time it made her feel embarrassed and awkward. Behind her, Cassian’s fingertips brush against her back, and she realizes that she’s just standing there staring at Bodhi’s pilot friends, probably scowling and looking unpleasant. 

She clears her throat, and tries to think of something a friend worthy of sweetness and pride might say. “Hi,” she manages.

_[Synopsis: Jyn does not, as a rule, have friends. Nobody seems to have told Bodhi.]_


	10. made up story titles (part 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more "send me a title" answers. A couple of these got a bit heavy, sorry.

**guess why (my heart’s beating faster)**  [suggested by @ishipallthings]

[rebelcaptain, no warnings apply]

 

“The average Human will take approximately eight hundred million breaths in their lifetime,” Chirrut says, tapping her shoulder with the staff that Bodhi made out of an old shuttle cross-brace. “You can afford to care about at least a few of them.”

“I care about all of them,” Jyn mutters. “I just think it’s boring to sit around and  _listen_  to them.”

“Boredom,” Chirrut says in that grave tone he uses when reciting some Wise Old Man Mantra (usually to the tune of Baze groaning in the background), “is the inability of the mind to occupy itself with meaningful thought.”

“I have many meaningful thoughts,” Jyn replies, but before she can elaborate, her partner walks into the room and sees them both sitting crosslegged on the floor. His mouth curls up into that soft half-smile that always makes Jyn’s fingers itch to…to…do something about it. 

“Meaningful, perhaps, but also easily distracted,” Chirrut says next to her, although what  _that_  is supposed to mean, she has no idea.

_[Synopsis: Jyn wants to learn some of Chirrut’s fighting skills, but he insists she learns mindful breathing and meditation first. She’d be a better student if Cassian didn’t keep…distracting her.]_

 

* * *

 

 

 **you’re a sharpshooter (take a bullet to the heart)** [suggested by @ishipallthings]

[mild rebelcaptain, non-graphic references to death, some dark thoughts from Cassian]

 

In the back of one of Cassian’s datapads, encrypted with every single trick of the trade he knows, carefully hidden under folder names like “Old Republic tax laws” and “Festian knitting patterns,” Cassian has a file. It’s an old file, one he started when he was nine, brand new to the Alliance (not the Rebellion, of course, but wearing a uniform for the first time), and still stumbling scared from place to place but already skilled at hiding it. The file is labelled “in case,” and inside he has a list.

On that list is every person he works with, or has worked with for any significant time period in the past, or anticipates that he might have to work with in the future. Next to each name, there is one or two words only, no further information or links to other databases. The words are things like “peanuts,” or “right ear,” meaningless to anyone who might somehow sneak their way into this file. He doesn’t need anything more defining, honestly doesn’t even really need the list itself. He has it all memorized, like an old song lodged in his head, a heavy weight tied around his lungs. The physical list exists purely as a reminder to himself, from time to time when he stumbles on it. He wrote this. He researched it. He looked at each one of these people and spent time and effort deciding how - should the need ever arise - he could kill them. 

Hannina Justiv - peanuts (a severe allergy, just slip the dust in her food if there is time, inject the serum into her veins if there isn’t)

Davits Draven - right ear (he's partially deaf on that side, easier to sidle up to him on the right, easier to put the barrel by his ear and pull the trigger before he reacts)

C3PO - auditory processing glitch (overload the droid with too many loud sounds, destroy while his processing core goes into dramatic overdrive)

The list goes on. Every name is on it, removed only when they are already confirmed dead. 

Mon Mothma - ranged shot (she doesn’t wear the personal shields that Draven keeps insisting she should, though she does have bodyguards who would stop a close-range attack)

Serrrana Ajish - flu (medical files indicate a fatal genetic weakness to most strains of the virus)

The list goes on. He has been writing it since he was nine - he had meant it as a way to cope, written his own name down and listed all the things that could kill him, meaning to write silly ones (death by clowns, death by eating too much cake, death by spontaneous glitter storm) but it had gotten too realistic too fast, and in a panic he had started listing all his enemies and how he would destroy them first. 

Commander Thoma Horaldi - political pride (smear that arrogant bastards name enough, he would hang himself)

Moff Gurd - venereal disease (the fool had no self control anyway, it would be completely believable to the coroners afterwards)

And then it had come in handy - on a mission, he had been forced to put down someone he should have been able to trust. He’d done it exactly the way he’d written in his list. And after the debrief and the medical checks and the long, silent cry he’d had in the bathroom when he was finally alone, Cassian had opened the file and updated it carefully. 

 ~~Terrence Julan - crack in body armor~~  (just big enough for a blaster barrel to slip)

There are many names on the list. Cassian keeps it meticulously updated, and hates himself for it. It’s an inexcusable thing to have, the kind of thing that serial killers and psychopaths keep around. There’s no excuse, and probably no redemption for him, not for this. 

(Except sometimes, in the most secret places of his heart, he thinks that if there  _is_  any redemption to be had, it lies on the last entry on the list, the entry he stops and looks at every time he opens this file.)

Jyn Erso - 

(Cassian Andor has destroyed a lot of things for the cause. Some things he would rather destroy him.)

 

* * *

 

 **Up and Away** [suggested by anonymous]

[non-specific references to injuries, non-specific references to imperialism/growing up in an occupied zone]

 

“I was ten,” Bodhi confesses, twitchy fingers pulling at the seams of the too-big shirt they had put him in, twitchy toes curling and uncurling in the stiff sheets of the medical ward. “I was ten and kind of, of small. And the tanks rolled through, you know, through my streets and, and my mum would say, she would say -” He fights with his tongue, his twitchy tongue, but he can’t get the words out, and he can feel the frustration clawing at his throat but his  _stupid_ tongue won’t twist the right way anymore because Bor Gullet took him all apart and didn’t fit all the seams back properly together again. 

Jyn’s hand is suddenly tight on his shoulder, gripping the big shirt and balling the unfamiliar fabric in her fist. It should be a threatening grip, should feel like she’s collaring him the way the shaved-ice dealer did when Bodhi tried to sneak a taste that one time, but instead Jyn’s grip just feels comforting, holding him upright and in place before all his pieces fly apart. Behind her, Cassian shifts slightly on his bed, Baze watches with hooded eyes, and Chirrut floats peacefully in his bacta tank - which also shouldn’t be comforting but it is. 

“My mum said,” Bodhi manages again, slow and careful, twitchy tongue picking his way through all the razor sharp words, “that when I saw the tanks coming, I should, should climb up something. You know, to get off the street. I think she, she was afraid I would fall under and, um,” he makes a vague gesture with his hands, “so she said climb, and in my head I think that turned into, um, into this idea that if I was higher up, then the tanks wouldn’t be, you know, wouldn’t run over me. I wouldn’t get squashed. And then one day there was a, a parade? Or a demo- a demonstration? Something. Lots of tanks. And I was trying to climb these water barrels but I kept slipping, and I was really, you know how kids are, I was just certain that if I didn’t get up there, I would be crushed, so I was panicking and-”

Jyn’s hand tightened on his shirt again, reeling him back, and Bodhi breathed and breathed and breathed and he could have just stopped and done that for awhile, breathed and let the seams mend themselves (the doctors promised they would, eventually). But he wanted to - maybe he just needed -

“A TIE fighter went overhead,” he said, fingers picking at the sheet (that seam won’t mend itself, but he is not cloth, he is Jedha clay and recycled spaceship air and the blood of a slaughtered people, and he will mend, he  _will_ ). “I looked up, and it was like…if I was in there, nothing would ever crush me. I would just…I would fly away. Up into the clouds and the stars, in the silence of the sky.”

Chirrut’s bacta tank beeped, and Bodhi blinked, back in his medward bed with Jyn’s fist in his shirt and the others watching him quietly. “Sorry,” he said, though he wasn’t entirely sure why.

“Good dream,” Baze said.

“Your medical file,” Cassian began, paused, then cleared his throat, “which I apologize for reading without your permission, Bodhi,” (Bodhi waved that off, because at this point, it would be weirder if Cassian  _didn’t_  just know things about all of them, and anyway, his body might have been wrecked a bit but Cassian’s brain was still in one piece, so he probably understood what was wrong with Bodhi better than the pilot did himself), “Your medical files have a six month recovery period mapped for you, but the doctor’s assessments are very hopeful.” He paused again, glanced at Jyn, who nodded. “If you want to be apply for fighter pilot screening after that,” Cassian shrugged his shoulders slightly, which was a pretty big deal because last time he had been awake the doctors had his whole upper body tied to the bed and he hadn’t been able to move. It was a good thing Jyn had been there with her silent grip on Cassian’s shoulders then, because Bodhi had been feeling a little sympathetic panic at the look on Cassian’s face and that was the only thing that had calmed him down enough to hear the doctors talking.

But he’s moving now, not tied down at all, and Baze is going to have new scars and Jyn’s leg was busted and Chirrut is definitely going to be needing a hoverchair for a while (he’s not sure about K2SO’s final status, and he hasn’t dared ask yet, not with everyone so fragile already) - they are all going to make it, more or less okay, and Cassian says that he will recover, he can try to be a pilot again. Bodhi’s not entirely sure he can do that, not really sure he  _should_ do that - what if all the seams come unraveled again? what if the pieces never really weld back together? And even if they do, he’ll be a whole different shape, a new person with jagged edges and rough spots and holes that weren’t there before. 

“I always liked it, too,” Jyn says quietly, and when Bodhi turns to look at her, her face doesn’t really smile, but it softens, and he’s already learning that for Jyn, sometimes that’s the same thing. “Flying,” she explains, and shrugs. “It doesn’t change. Same engine noises. Same feeling. Same…” she pauses, frowning, clearly hunting for the word. Her free hand points upwards after a moment, “Same stars.”

Chirrut’s bacta tank beeps again. Bodhi bites his lip. “Yeah,” he agrees slowly. “Yeah, I guess they are. That’s…” he takes a deep breath, then looks over her shoulder to Cassian. “I think I’d, um, I want to…try.”

“I’ll pull an application,” Cassian promises. “We’ll keep it on hand until you’re ready.”

“Good,” Baze grunts, and Jyn’s tight grip loosens but doesn’t pull away, which is nice, because Bodhi’s still a bit shaky at the seams. 

But it’s okay. He’s okay. Different, messed up, not the person he was before - but it’s like Jyn said. No matter what  _he_  is, the stars are still the same, and someday he will rise above all that would crush him, and be among them again.

 _[Synopsis:_   _Bodhi Rook, cargo pilot, Imperial defector, survivor of Scarif and son of a murdered planet, always wanted to be a fighter pilot. Nowadays, he’s not sure what he wants - but he might already have what he needs_.]

 

 


	11. Halloween (part 1?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not actually a prompt, but posted on tumblr after I found it hiding in the deep recesses of my harddrive. Written around Halloween, with some personal opinions on appropriate party etiquette and a little bit of commentary on costumes. An attempt at a Modern AU.

Cassian doesn’t really get Halloween. Oh, he appreciates the appeal of pretending to be someone you are not. He knows that Halloween allows people to sidle around the normal rules of society, getting away with whatever silliness would usually label them an idiot or an outsider. He understands the power of a mask better than most, after all.

He even gets that it’s largely an excuse for parties and alcohol and general debauchery. He may not be much for crowds himself, but Kes and Shara throw a Halloween party every year and he doesn’t have enough friends to disappoint the ones who have stuck with him over the years. So he puts on a clean shirt and brings a bag of those malt chocolates that Shara adores, and wades through the noise and the dancing until he can find somewhere relatively safe to stand. Kay is here, of course, though he hates gatherings like this even worse than Cassian and has unrepentantly fixed himself at the kitchen table with a bottle of water and a plate full of Kes’ baked treats. Shara and Kes are good hosts, and they won’t try to dislodge him. No, they smile and they pass around themed drinks and foods and play music that gets most of the guests dancing through the night. It’s nice, honestly, if a little too noisy and closed in for Cassian. He can at least see the appeal of these things, when they’re run by people like the Damerons.

So really what he doesn’t understand about Halloween is the costumes. 

Some of them are clever, or funny, or just impressive (someone at this party has shown up in an elaborately crafted and detailed rendition of a techno-angel from some video game, complete with articulated metal wings). But most of them, well…there’s a lot of “sexy fill-in-the-blank” costumes, which mostly means “this is what a doctor looks like according to cheap porn.” Cassian’s not a prude, not really, but every damn year he winds up backed into a corner with some drunk stranger’s breasts pressing against his arm, trying to avoid unfamiliar hands where he really doesn’t want them to be, and even worse pick-up lines half-shouted in his ear.

Not that some of the men are better. This year, the worst so far is a man dressed as “sexy Mario” (he actually gets that reference, because he may not be much for video games but he doesn’t live under a rock, either). Sexy Mario wears a massive false mustache, a bright red speedo and…not much else. Cassian has a drink that Shara calls a “poisoned apple” and claims has tequila and pomegranate mixed in. He’s not sure that’s exactly what he’s tasting, but the beer is some disgusting American brew and he just can’t do that to himself. The drink gives him something to do with his hands, though, so he sips his poison and tries not to stare at anyone.

Well, to be honest, he tries not to stare at one person in particular.

Last year, Kes had dragged him by the shoulder to meet “my new work buddy, amazing trainer at the Center, brother, could kick my ass three ways to Sunday,” and Cassian had expected to look up and see another towering, muscle-bound ex-soldier like all the others who worked at Kes’ Center for Wounded Veterans. Instead, he’d found himself blinking down at a woman who barely came to his shoulder with delicate features and heavily scarred knuckles, dressed in…a nineteenth century suit? “This is Jyn,” Kes had beamed at him, shoving Cassian until he nearly stumbled right into her, “You should talk! Jyn, this is Cassian, he works with some of our PTSD clients!” And then he’d winked, and promptly vanished back into his party.

They had stared at each other for exactly five seconds, until Cassian had blurted, “What is your costume?” without thinking.

“Lilian Bland,” she replied, and at his blank look, shrugged. “She built her own airplane from a whiskey bottle and an ear trumpet in 1910,” as if this explained everything.

Cassian, who had been expecting some character from a show or some other cultural reference, had been thrown. “She was, uh, a real woman?”

Jyn’s mouth twisted into a wry smirk, her eyes catching the golden lights of the candles on the mantle near her head. “Yeah. Didn’t give a shite about anyone’s opinion, but she did some amazing stuff, so why should she?”

And just like that, he was charmed. He’d spent almost the entire party with her, listening to her stories about the various historical figures she admired (Lilian Bland, Ada Lovelace, Sojourner Truth, to name a few), and answering her questions when she demanded to know who he thought was worth emulating (he’d stalled for a moment, then settled on Emiliano Zapata and Jaime Sabines). The noise of the party forced him to lean down and speak almost into her ear, and in turn tilt his head so she could do the same for him. Kes had teased him about that later. (“It was loud,” Cassian protested, but Kes had smirked and rolled his eyes. “Not after midnight, it wasn’t, and you were still doing it, brother.”)

Somewhere around three in the morning, she’d said she had to go, and he’d almost, almost asked for her number…but then some friend of hers, a pleasant looking man with warm brown skin and warmer eyes had slung an arm around her shoulders and asked her to make sure he stumbled home safely. Jyn had smiled at him, a full smile brighter than any of the soft half-smiles or edged smirks Cassian had seen on her face all night, and waved goodbye as she left.

The next week, he’d been sitting in the staff break room absently cramming a sandwich in his mouth while he read through an incoming patient’s case file, and she walked in, plunked down in the chair next to him, and without preamble said, “So I looked up Zapata. Do you like him because he fought the rich, or because he fought fire with fire?”

“I…am not sure,” he replied slowly. “I suppose I admire his resolution in the face of adversity.”

Jyn smirked, propped her chin up on one hand, and stole one of his grapes with the other. “Sounds like you,” she said almost fondly, and then spent an hour asking him what he thought about the Mexican Revolution, which somehow became a discussion on ancient land-ownership customs, which moved to mythology and then lunch time was over and she pressed a hand to his shoulder on her way back out to the physical therapy spaces.

Usually, Cassian ate his lunch in his office. After that, however, he either ate in the break room or in the small park behind the Center, and tried not to feel disappointed the few times she didn’t meet him there.

He had, perhaps, a bit of a crush. Not that he ever did anything about it. It wouldn’t have been…professional. There had been a few times, yes, when they’d been caught up in some conversation or other, when he found himself leaning perhaps a bit closer than necessary. And once or twice, that little farewell touch on his shoulder that she always gave felt like it lingered longer than was strictly friendly. But the rest of the time they were as platonic as any work-friends could be.

So here he was, a year later, and in more or less exactly the same spot he’d been standing in last time (damn, he might even be wearing the same shirt), trying to think of something worth saying to her and feeling like a bit of a fool for making such a big deal out of a few glancing touches and good conversation.

Jyn, on the other hand, has chosen this year to show up wearing some kind of hodge-podge dress made of patched together cloth scraps in various reds and whites, with a red scarf wrapped around her head and a glittering gold and white half-mask covering the upper half of her face. When she turns and catches his eye, he can see the smudged eyeliner around her eyes, making their distinct green even more dramatic in the orange and red lights of the party.

The effect is extremely compelling.

Someone dressed like a sexy cat stumbles hard into his side (isn’t that technically a form of bestiality? Fetishizing an animal? He really doesn’t understand these costumes), and shrieks something at him in high-pitched, very drunk falsetto. He smiles politely and deftly plucks her hand from his belt buckle, turning her gently by the elbow and guiding her back towards her laughing friends (across the room, Shara catches his eye and mouths “you okay?” and gives him the thumbs up when he nods). When Sexy Cat is safely on her way, he turns back towards the last place he saw Jyn, only to find that she is no longer there.

She is, instead, right next to him. Her head is tilted to the side as if she’s considering him carefully, and she has one hand propped on her hip and the other fiddling with a necklace of some kind tucked under her costume’s patchwork collar. She doesn’t speak, just watches him, like she’s taking his measure. He leans against the mantle and looks back, and suddenly he recognizes her costume, because she’d been reading a book about Venetian Carnival last week, and he’d seen the picture over her shoulder.

“Colombina,” he says aloud, enough to hopefully be heard over the noise. “Harlequina of the Carnival.” Her lips part softly in surprise, and Cassian tries not to stare at that, either. He waits, expecting her to elaborate or maybe ask how he knows, but instead, she simply steps back once, then once more, never breaking eye contact, and then spins slowly on her heel and glides through the crowd, glancing back as she goes.

There is a challenge in that look, and an invitation. Cassian hesitates for a moment, worried he might be misreading it. But then Sexy Cat spins around and points at him like she’s marking him for the hunt, and Cassian decides he’d rather be disappointed by Jyn than pawed at by…well, at the moment, anyone else. But especially not someone dressed as the most awkward kind of animal lover.

So Cassian sets down his poisoned apple and casual indifference, and follows the lady in the mask.


	12. made up story titles (part 4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More "send me a title" fics. I forgot to post a few of these here.

 

 **tears with laughter (suits you) [** suggested by anonymous]

 

“I hit him with the chair,” Jyn said matter of factly, taking the bottle Cassian handed to her and sliding into the bench across from Solo, wiggling a little to make room for Cassian to slide in next to her. 

“As you do,” Solo remarked casually, nodding. “And then?”

“Hit him again, to make sure he understood,” Jyn took a long swallow of her drink and sprawled a bit back, her shoulder leaning against Cassian’s arm and her leg brushing his thigh. 

Solo snorted and raised his own bottle in salute. “Good times. And what about you, Andor? Get your licks in, or did you let your tiny bruiser handle this one?”

Jyn stilled, her eyes narrowing, but Cassian caught the flicker of Solo’s eyes, and heard the sharp tones of Leia Organa speaking to someone behind Cassian’s shoulder. Distracted bluster, Solo’s greatest weakness when it came to hiding his thoughts. Jyn, however, tended to take Solo’s thoughtlessness personally. Sometimes Cassian enjoyed watching that play out. Tonight, though, they were all tired, and Jyn was warm and comfortable against his side. So Cassian slid his arm out from under her elbow and looped it casually around her shoulders instead, tugging lightly until she reluctantly fell back against him. 

“I had my moments,” he said coolly, and raised an impassive eyebrow when Solo did a double-take at their casual intimacy. Cassian used his free hand to slide a sheet of Solo’s newscrip towards himself on the table and slowly begin to fold it. 

“Uh huh,” the smuggler said slowly, and then a grin - the kind of grin that Jyn liked to call “of the shit-eating variety” - spread across his face like a sunrise. “ _Well._ I see that this was an eventful mission all around.”

“Perhaps.” Cassian finished his folding and leaned forward slightly. Jyn shifted her weight to accommodate him as he handed Solo the page, which he had folded into loose, ridged triangle. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Solo took the paper and scrunched up his face into the most ridiculous expression of bewilderment. 

“So you can fan yourself,” Cassian told him blandly, and fought to keep his face neutral as the smuggler glowered at him. Against his side, Jyn’s shoulders twitched, but her own face was just as stony.

“Thanks,” Solo said sarcastically, and opened his mouth to add something probably wildly inappropriate. Before he could manage it, however, a gloved hand snaked over his shoulder and snatched the makeshift fan from his fingers. 

“Give me that,” Leia snapped, walking around Solo’s chair to eyeball Cassian and Jyn with an expression that even the experienced spy found difficult to read.

“Hey! That’s mine - uh, I mean, what do you need that for anyway, Your Worship?” 

Leia’s lips quirked up, and against his side, Jyn was now shaking with her bottled laughter. Leia arched a contemptuous eyebrow at Solo. “If they kiss, I’ll need to fan myself,” she said bluntly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then she strode off, crumpled fan in her hand. Cassian caught her eye a moment before she was out of sight, and her smile tugged a little higher before she swept grandly out of the door.

“That’s just ridic - you’re  _way_  too uptight to - hey, I was _talking_  -” Solo threw his hands up in the air. “Right. That’s your strategy for winning. Just walk away before a guy can say anything back.”

His mournful tone cracked Jyn’s iron control, and she snorted, then clamped a hand over her mouth. “Too late,” Cassian murmured in her ear. “I win.”

“Shut up,” she replied, digging her elbow a little into his side but making no effort to move.

“Oh, very funny,” Solo shoved himself to his feet. “Rebellion’s just full of kriffing comedians. Well, you two kids enjoy yourself. Try not to get the Princess all worked up.”

“If we do, we’ll give you pointers,” Cassian nodded affably. Jyn’s elbow dug a little harder into his side.

“Kriffing comedians,” the smuggler muttered again, and left.

“That,” Jyn tilted her head back against his arm and looked up him, “was too easy.”

“Sooner or later,” Cassian agreed, “someone is going to have to talk to him about that.”

“Not me,” she shrugged, then her face split into a wide grin, her empty hand winding up around his neck to tangle in the hair at his nape. “You gave him a fan? Really?”

Cassian turned his head and pressed a light kiss to her temple. “What can I say? I am a helpful person.”

\--

 

 **I will wait here for you (forever) [** suggested by anonymous]

 

“Dangerous to promise that. Eternity is a long bargain,” Chirrut chides him softly, but Baze only rests his forehead against Chirrut’s shoulder, and he doesn’t take it back. Chirrut’s hands are gentle on the back of his head, combing through his tangled braids with the deft touch of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. “It never ends, you know.”

Baze grunts, unimpressed. “Prove it.”

 

\--

 

 **Bitter Ashes: Endgame**  [suggested by @mariganath]

 

“It had to be us, didn’t it?” Cassian says quietly to Baze, looking down at the dead man’s face between them. The bitter winds of this planet scrape and slice against the exposed parts of his face and neck, clawing down the back of his collar. 

Baze sighs, a long, tired rush of air.

“The others would have tried to save him,” Cassian shakes his head, not sure why he is saying it, why he needs to say it. He already knows. Baze already knows. The man on the ground is dead. Still, Cassian’s mouth keeps moving, his voice rough and bitter as the wind. “Jyn, Bodhi, Chirrut. They would have - they would have died trying.”

Baze’s head dips slightly, his eyes fixed on the corpse - poor middle-class sap who wanted to do the right thing, wanted to be a rebel, but never really understood what that meant, or how it might end. How it did end, for him.

Cassian swallows, stuffs his hands into his pockets. “So it’s good that it was us. We were the only ones who could…we could…”

“Watch,” Baze completes his sentence flatly, when Cassian can not.

 _Saw used to say that we were called to a greater purpose,_  Jyn whispered to him once in the dark. 

_Did you believe him?_

_No,_ she grinned, her smile more felt than seen against his shoulder.  _Not the way he meant._

“I can’t -” he says now, clenching his jaw and shaking away the memory of Jyn’s hands carding through his hair, shaking away the pain he already feels coming when she finds out the helpful, eager contact (no, not  _contact_ , that’s not fair of him, the man died for this rebellion, however little it mattered in the end) when she finds out that Darin Winslow is dead. He can already picture her face and oh,  _Force, it is going to hurt._

“Come, Captain,” Baze says at last, his hand heavy on Cassian’s shoulder. “This is not finished yet.”

Right. Moff Roskin is still sitting somewhere in his fancy safehouse, drinking expensive wine and congratulating himself on a battle won. He is sitting on his expensive furniture built by the slaves of his planet surrounded by armed guards each paid more than most of the families on this world will ever see in their lives, and he is thinking that he is untouchable.

After he’s done telling the others what has happened - after he is done watching Jyn’s face as she understands what he has done for the cause - Cassian is going to show Roskin just how wrong he is.

\--


	13. Name 10 Songs (Ricochet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was: "Name 10 songs that you currently obsessed with." I am working my way through all 10, but here's the first one. I was tagged by @estherlyon. (Warning: this chapter contains attempted sexual assault and has some canon-typical violence.)
> 
> My original tumblr post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/170914372839/ricochet).

_Ricochet -_ _Shiny Toy Guns_

_Like a bullet, meant to be shot_

_You’re the target_  
Dead on the spot  
When I focus, I never miss  
It starts with a kiss

_She ricochets  
And you don’t notice_

* * *

 

 

The nightclub is packed tonight, and if Jyn were a different fifteen year old, she would probably love it. The music pulses through her body, the crowd dances with abandon, the food here is cheap and the drinks practically free for a girl with gold-painted eyes and a short skirt. This isn’t normally her type of mission, but Saw took Maia on his recent off-planet op and this is a last-second target of opportunity. The man she’s been dancing near for the last twenty minutes - minutes in which she’s been increasingly wilder with the arc of her hips and his eyes have been increasingly turned her way as a result - he’s some kind of higher-up Imp’s son who just decided to have a night on the town, and they had to move quick to catch him. Magva says he’s been spotted schmoozing with local weapons manufacturers. There’s a damn good chance he has codes, or information on Imperial weapons’ orders, or at the least, he’s worth something for ransom. (Saw won’t ransom him, Saw will put a blaster bolt in his pale forehead or a knife in his belly, but he might be persuaded to ask for money, first).

According to the mark’s Quantagram feed and the sort of shit he posts on his (public, unlocked) NebulaNetwork account, this Imp “prefers his meat a bit tender,” as Codo so diplomatically put it. Maia is off-world, Magva’s pushing forty, and every other female or female-appearing member of the Partisans is too non-Human to catch Master Imperial Dickbag’s eye. So Magva painted Jyn’s face and Euwood scrounged up a skirt that barely covered her butt, and Jyn went into the club with a knife tucked between her breasts and a vague plan to draw him out into the nearby alley, so her people can jump him. 

She expects to take at least an hour to draw his attention, and maybe another half hour or so to lure him outside. Instead, Dickbag’s eyes light on her almost as soon as she marks him, and he’s already making his way towards her. She’s simultaneously thrilled (this is way easier than she thought), disgusted (all she had to do was wear a skirt and make eye contact, and he’s staring like a musk-hound in heat), and if she’s totally honest…a little bit scared (she’s never pulled a soft op like this, never wanted to, and if Saw weren’t off-world with Maia right now, she has a suspicion he wouldn’t have allowed it).

She loses her mark for a moment in the crowd as the song changes over, and Jyn spins in a little circle, discretely trying to lock him again. A clammy hand suddenly runs up her back, and she whirls, fists clenched instinctively, to find her mark standing almost chest to chest with her, smiling. His teeth are so white that he must be bleaching them, and his canines are slightly more pointed than average – a trait that is considered very fashionable in Core worlds right now. He probably files them that way. He probably thinks his bone-white, sharp-toothed grin looks seductive.

His hand is still on her back, curling her in towards him. Jyn stomps on the urge to plant her knee in his groin and lets him reel her in, giggling. He slips his other hand down over her ass, yanks her tight and grinds against her as the music hits a chorus and the crowd around them surges to the beat. His grin is even whiter up close, his little fangs inches from her face as he bends down to yell something indistinct in her ear. Judging by his expression, he thinks he’s said something impossibly clever, or devastatingly smooth.

Bile coats the back of her throat, but she smiles instead and jerks her head towards the door.

He follows without so much as a whisper of protest – seriously, this was sickeningly easy, did he do all of his thinking with his dick? – and Jyn sends out a silent prayer that the others are in place already.

They aren’t. The alleyways are clear of familiar faces when she gets to the mouth of the designated trap point, and there are no telltale gleaming blaster barrels on the roofs or catwalks overhead. Jyn’s mind starts to race, her pulse fluttering as she racks her brain for something to distract the mark while the Partisans move in. But he’s impatient and drunk and clearly not interested in foreplay, because she’s only halfway down the alley when he gives a sharp jerk on her arm and drags her back to him. Jyn manages to stop herself from reflexively punching him in the throat, and she opens her mouth to try and stall for time (get him talking about himself, Idryssa said that the best way to hold off assholes was to ask them to talk about themselves). But before she can get a single word out, Dickbag crushes her back against the dirty alley wall and jams his cold, beer-soaked tongue in her mouth. He pushes it so far in that Jyn gags slightly, and fleetingly wonders if he’s going for the least-efficient suffocation-kill ever. His hands are clawing at her clothes, and Jyn tries to grab his wrists and pull them away from her breasts but too late –

Dickbag jerks his head back, his body still pinning her to the wall but his face slowly shifting from lust to confusion to anger. “The fuck is this?” he slurs at her, and rips the knife from her bra. “The fuck?” he demands loudly, features warping into drunken rage, his free hand coming up to pin her neck to the wall. His knee is still thrust between her thighs and and the alley is still empty behind him.

“You some kinda freak, or you tryin’ to jump me, bitch?” The Imperial sneers down at her, then suddenly he leans in again, his mouth angling for hers, and something in Jyn  _snaps_.

It isn’t fear. She knows what fear feels like, that shivery, floating sensation when her brain steps a little outside her body and the world focuses down to the threat at hand. Fear makes her muscles shiver even as they move through the well-practiced movements that have saved her in the past. Fear is a cold rock sitting in her stomach, a fist clenching around her lungs.

This is something else, something hot and wild that surges in her chest and makes her shake for an entirely different reason.

This asshole, this boga-fucker, this  _worthless Imperial daddy’s boy,_  he thinks he can just push her down and stick his sweaty hands wherever he likes, push his slimy little worm-tongue into her mouth and wrap his weak, baby-smooth fingers around her throat and she’ll just sit there and take it because he’s bigger and older and richer than her?

 _Not. Fucking. Today_.

In one vicious move, Jyn crosses her left hand over his outstretched arm and slaps her palm hard against his face, twists to the side, and slams her right hand against the side of his elbow. Dickbag’s arms go flying sideways off her neck, and he stumbles slightly in surprise. It only takes half a second, but that’s all Jyn needs. She explodes off the wall and into his gut, ramming him hard with her boney shoulder and sending him staggering back. Quick as a nightmare, she snags the knife from his awkward amateur grip and spins on her heel. Dickbag grunts and lunges at her, but it’s far, far too late – he is a pathetic pampered little bastard who picks on people smaller than him and thinks that makes him tough, and Jyn is a living weapon honed by blood and fire and the harsh grindstone of war.

He tries to grab a handful of her hair. Jyn slices off his left pinkie, reverses her grip, angles up between the ribs, and buries the blade hilt-deep.

It takes the Partisans ten more minutes to find her. By then, Jyn has straightened her torn clothes, cleaned and stowed her knife, and rifled through the mark’s personal effects. When Magva storms down the alleyway, her blaster only barely tucked under her coat and death in her eyes, she finds Jyn standing in a rigid parody of parade rest, the spoils of her mission in a small pile at her feet – wallet, keychain, and ID chip. Behind the girl, a heap of trash piles against the wall, indistinguishable from all the other piles of trash in this low-end neighborhood, save for the pale face of the corpse only just visible near the bottom.

Magva stares at the scene for a long, tense moment, her sharp eyes taking in the broken strap of Jyn’s tank top, the smudges on her short skirt, the bruises on her thin neck. Her expression never flickers, although behind her, the others swear in multiple languages.

“Codo, cover the face,” the older woman orders at last. The boy shuffles forward, scowling as he looks at Jyn’s mussed appearance, and does as he is bid. Jyn stays still as a statue, looking at nothing but Magva. She offers no excuse and asks for no forgiveness. Her face is still flushed, and while the others might think it’s from the fight, Jyn has a feeling that when Magva looks into her eyes, she sees the rage still simmering just below the surface.

Codo kicks trash over the Imp and gathers up the spoils from Jyn’s feet. In a low tone that Jyn has never heard in Magva’s smoke-roughened voice, the older woman says suddenly, “Helps to burn it,” and then turns on her heel. She marches away, the others trailing behind still grumbling about the ‘botched’ objective. It isn’t until their footsteps trail away into the noise of the streets that Jyn unlocks her limbs and takes a jerky step forward. It takes her a minute to find a bottle with some alcohol still in the bottom, another to find an old lighter that sputters in her impatient hand before finally catching fire, just long enough to light the rags she stuffs in the bottle.

There’s enough oil in the trash heap to keep the blaze going. All the same, Jyn takes care to aim away from the nascent flame when she spits on the heap.

It isn’t fear making her muscles shake and her heart pound in her chest (that will come later, alone in the dark where no one can see, no one can judge).  It isn’t fear that makes her curl her lip and wish she could find every girl this rat bastard ever touched and drag them here to see the fitting pyre she’s built for him.

If Jyn were a different fifteen year old, Magva’s advice might have seemed barbaric to her, violence added to violence. But Jyn has been raised in violence and steeped in rage, so burning her enemy down to bones and garbage is just good tactical sense. She is fifteen years old (soon enough, she’ll remember that, and do her best to pretend she doesn’t), but above all else, she is a fighter, a soldier, a  _rebel._  And nobody is going to take anything from her again.

Jyn stands over the trash heap until the fire blazes up higher than her head and the faint sound of sirens begins to echo in the alleyway. Then she turns on her heel and vanishes into the smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, it takes more than that to burn a human body. If Luke Skywalker can cremate a man in armor with nothing but sticks and teddy bear booze, Jyn Erso can roast a clubbing slime-ball with greasy garbage and a lighter.


	14. Dramatic Flair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from [The Nakadia Job](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13221618/chapters/30242985), because @lostinmirkwood commented that Chirrut was having the time of his life, and this popped out of my head. (Set between Chapters 2 and 3).

-

“Do I get a cape?” Chirrut asks Cassian, his teeth gleaming in the light of the shuttle, his staff tapping thoughtfully on the floor. “I think Jao Dahn is the sort of man who would wear a cape. A nice, mid-length A-cut, red interior cape. Weighted, of course.”

“No capes,” Baze growls immediately, holding up a warning finger as if his partner can see it. Chirrut’s grin widens, and Bodhi wonders vaguely if he actually _can_. Maybe Baze is waving a finger through the Force. (Is that how it works? He’s never asked.)

“Capes are out of fashion on Nakadia,” Cassian replies, glancing up from the datapad balanced on his knee. “You would draw attention.”

“Why weighted?” Bodhi asks curiously, sitting on the floor next to Jyn as she digs through their trunk of various suit jackets, miscellaneous trousers of every cut and cloth, and the odd robe. “Is it going to be, um, like a weapon?” He frowns and leans closer to Jyn. “Can you make a weapon from a cape?”

Jyn shoves a handful of multi-color ties into his hands. “Pick a blue one,” she says shortly, and then, “In general, or me specifically?” Bodhi holds up a blue and green patterned tie for her inspection, and she grimaces and plucks it from his fingers, tossing it back in the box.

“An unweighted cape  _swishes_  too much,” Chirrut informs the shuttle. “Proper weights in the hem ensure the correct level of,” he pauses, tilts his head, “flair.”

“Sharpen the edges of the weights,” Jyn adds, “it ensures a clean cut, too.”

Over Bodhi’s head, Cassian and Baze exchange a look. “No capes,” Baze says again, firmly.

Chirrut opens his mouth, but Cassian is quicker. “Long coats are relatively fashionable.”

“Old men wear long coats, Captain,” Chirrut says lightly, a mocking pout in his voice.

Bodhi holds up a pale-blue tie to his throat and looks at Jyn. She considers for a moment, then shakes her head. Bodhi sighs and tosses the pale blue back in the box. “Cassian wears long coats,” he says without thinking, and then winces as the captain raises an eyebrow and Jyn huffs a soft laugh. Cassian shifts his glower from Bodhi to her, but there is no real edge to it.

“The Mon Cala blue one,” the captain says at last, and then goes back to his datapad with a determined expression.

Bodhi fishes out the deep blue tie and hands the rest back to Jyn, who dumps them unceremoniously into the crate.

“If I am to be convincing in my role as an intergalactic high-stakes campaigner,” Chirrut says, “I must display at least some decent dress sense, Captain.”

“There is a ream of heavy red material available on the holonet market,” K2SO chimes in from the cockpit. “It can be purchased and picked up within the half hour.”

“Enough to sew into one of the Captain’s long coats?” Baze asks, ignoring the irritated look that passes over Cassian’s face.

“Easily,” Kay replies.

“All shall be as the Force wills it,” Chirrut spreads his hands out wide with a smile, which Bodhi figures means he approves.

“Well then,” Jyn kicks the crate back under the bench and casually hoists herself from the floor to sit beside Cassian. Bodhi fusses with his new tie and wonders if they think no one notices the way Cassian automatically reaches out to brush his fingertips against her hand, or how she leans against his shoulder as she settles. “That’s Chirrut sorted. Now we just need a jacket that fits Baze and fatigues for me.”

“More fatigues?” Cassian murmurs, though the faint lines around his eyes mean he’s teasing her.

Jyn smirks at him and unclips her own datapad. “I might need boots, too,” she flicks an eyebrow at him. “You can help find some that match. You’re better at that sort of shit than me.”

“My pleasure,” Cassian’s mouth softens into a small smile.

“For the record, you are terrible at flirting,” Bodhi tells them both.

Behind him, Chirrut taps his cane again and says meditatively, “I appreciate the loan of the coat, Captain, and the addition of the red interior. But let us not forget,” he adds gravely, “the weights.”

“Right,” Cassian sighs. “For the flair.”


	15. Drunk writing: in a single flash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [In celebration of a new assignment](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171738490244/hey-so-this-means-fuck-all-to-probably-everyone) (and potential promotion) I received, I asked my tumblr buddies to [send me their fave quotes](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171745070644/hey-guys-so-im-celebrating-not-being-deployable), and I would write a story snippet (I didn't specify rebelcaptain, but come on). This chapter's prompt is from [@leiaorganas](https://leaiorganas.tumblr.com/), who sent:
> 
>  
> 
> _"There is never a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment."_

He sees it coming a moment before it happens - the robed strangers stride out in the center of the square, right in front of the slow-rolling Imperial tank ( _idiots,_ Cassian has time to think, idiots standing out in the open point blank before a damn  _tank,_ where does Gerrera get these people? More importantly, how does he  _keep_  them?) and Jyn Erso is suddenly pressed tight against his side and he can feel her drawing herself into a tight coil, a lothal-cat in the second before it springs, a cannon whining as it preps to fire. He has time to tense himself, his mind racing as he looks for cover, but before he can find it, the Partisans draw rocket launchers from under their tattered robes and unleash all the hells into the square. Instantly, a cloud of smoke and grit billows up from the demolished tank and fills the market. Cassian squints as Jyn rams into him from the side, shoving him bodily towards an alcove in between the buildings. She stumbles in after him, her back already to the wall opposite and her blaster already drawn ( _his_  blaster, but he’s absurdly glad to see it in her hands right now).

Blaster bolts in red and yellow flash through the air, ripping chunks out of the old stone buildings and the screaming, fleeing people around them, throwing gravel and blood in various colors up into the hazy air. A series of red cannon shots strike the wall just around the corner from where Jyn is cautiously leaning out; she flinches back, and without thinking, Cassian reaches out and grabs her elbow, tugging her sharply back and away from the danger. She turns to stare at him, and he drops her elbow and shuffles slightly away, as surprised at himself as she is. But then, he still needs her alive for the mission. If Gerrera finds him here with the bolt-riddled corpse of his former protege, Cassian’s a dead man, too. 

He’s still running this rationale through his head (along with a dozen different escape plans and a few choice curses) when Jyn suddenly jerks, looking out into the man-made storm in the market square. He sees her tense again, coiled in and ready to spring, and he lunges forward to grab her but he’s moved too far back in his haste to distance himself before, so he’s too late. She dives into the chaos, leaving his hand grasping at empty air behind her. Cassian’s heart drops into his gut and he shouts after her - what is she  _doing,_  has she gone utterly  _mad?_  - and then he sees her dive down and throw her arms around -

Oh, oh no, it’s a child, a little crying girl with tear stains on her dirty face and her small fists clutching at Jyn’s scarf around her neck. Jyn curls her body around the child and runs for the opposite side of the road. The little girl wails and buries her face in Jyn’s shoulder - she’s six or seven, he guesses, so small and helpless and scared in the face of this brutal violence. Jyn’s arms are tight around her, and even through the haze he can see her mouth move as she runs, her eyes wild but her hands gentle -  _it’s okay, it’s okay, hush, I’ve got you, you’re safe_  - and for a terrible, visceral moment, Cassian is not on Jedha anymore but on Carida, six years old and running terrified through the burning debris and screaming blaster bolts of the rioting streets, looking for his Papa, his feet stumbling and his eyes blurred with smoke and tears. But there had been no one to pick him up, to hold him close and whisper even a few meaningless reassurances - 

Jyn makes it to the wall, and a terrified woman dashes forward and pulls the child into her own arms. Jyn doesn’t wait for her to offer thanks, she simply shoves the woman’s shoulders towards the nearest exit and then turns back to Cassian (she turns back to him, when she could just bolt down the street after the woman and the child, she could just run away but she stays, she stays) and right then, right there, Cassian feels his heart constrict and his breath catch. Her eyes are fierce and certain, afraid but determined - she dashes back towards him, but has to pause and duck behind the burning tank to avoid crossfire. Over her head, he suddenly sees a Partisan stand up, unpinning a grenade and clearly judging the distance between his position and the tank. Between the grenade and Jyn Erso.

Cassian raises his blaster and fires without even thinking about it, because there is nothing to think, nothing to debate - Jyn is going to survive this, he knows it suddenly with a deadly, cold certainty. She is going to survive this if he has to shoot every fucking Partisan in this square and all the ‘troopers too. There’s no time to examine this new and iron-hard conviction, and he wouldn’t even if he could. It’s enough for him that it’s there, that when the Partisan falls to his shot and the grenade detonates far away from Jyn’s vulnerable back, she turns and looks at him again. He nods -  _it’s okay, I’ve got you_  - and is rewarded when she tightens her jaw and bolts again across the short distance, almost barreling into him again as she makes it to the relative, temporary safety of his alcove. They can’t stay put, of course, not with more Imperial tanks thundering down the nearby streets and the Partisans swarming the area, but for just one instant, Jyn is leaning against his side and in Cassian’s mind a voice whispers  _I’ve got you_  - 

\- and then Jyn grabs onto his arm and tugs, and he follows her out into the madness again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor adjustments and corrections made from the original post (this will be true of all these short story answers).


	16. Drunk writing: someone to carry you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt came from [@ruby-red-inky-blue](http://ruby-red-inky-blue.tumblr.com/), aka [guineapiggie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/search?utf8=%E2%9C%93&work_search%5Bquery%5D=guineapiggie), who sent:
> 
>  
> 
> _"When you can't run, you crawl, and when you can't crawl, when you can't do that... you find someone to carry you."_
> 
>  
> 
> The original post is [here.](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171768298159/im-prooobably-very-late-to-the-party-but-ill)
> 
> Warning for non-explicit thoughts of suicide in this one.

“Go, Cassian, go!” his father shouts through the crowd, “I’m right behind you,  _go!”_  and Cassian is small and quick and clever, so he slips through the crushing bodies without looking back, why should he look back? Papa said to  _go_ , said he would be right there, and Papa does not lie. It is not until he is clear of the panicked mob that he realizes nobody is behind him. It is not until kind old Professor Nunda from down the street picks him up and carries him into the nearest house, the neighbors house, not his own, that Cassian even begins to understand that something Very Bad has happened. It is not until Professor Nunda’s husband - nice Paulo who smells like cookies except today when he smells like blood, cries into his hands while the holoscreen flickers with a newsreport about riots and death tolls - that Cassian understands that he ran too fast, too well, and left Papa behind.

 

* * *

 

“Get out,” Draven orders, though the stern weight of his command is undermined by the wheeze in his voice and the way his eyes can’t seem to quite focus on Cassian’s face. “Get to the transport. You have…” he pauses, blinks, swipes at the red oozing into his eyes. “You have priority intel,” Draven says again, and when Cassian still does not move, his scowl deepens from professional concern to outright irritation. “ _Now,_  Ensign.” But Cassian says nothing, he simply wraps his commander’s arm (the good one, the non broken one) over his shoulders and starts to trudge through the chaos of the rioting base, back towards their shuttle. If they are very lucky, the riots haven’t made it as far as the back-row landing pads, and Flight Ensign Bey will still be there, waiting to extract them. If they are not lucky…well. Draven sputters and orders him to run again, but Cassian knows how that story ends all too well, and he is an obedient operative ninety-five percent of the time (but the other five percent, he is a stubborn as all hell teenager, and today he chooses to be that, instead).

To his immense, secret relief, today it pays off, and the shuttle is not only still there, but untouched by the madness of the port, and the door is open with the engines spooled and ready to depart. “Next time, Andor,” Draven groans as he staggers away from Cassian’s shoulder and drags himself inside, “You are going to run when I goddamn tell you to.” Cassian nods, and climbs in after him, and they do not speak on it again.

 

* * *

 

“Not like this,” Cassian says softly as he crouches down in front of the shaking boy, a young petty officer in the ground corps that has seen one too many disastrous front line offensives. In his head, Cassian curses at the ground commander who keeps insisting that a frontal assault will work on Imperial installations, if only they can load up their soldiers with enough advanced tech. He wants to fight ‘troopers with ‘troopers, essentially, and it’s cutting through their limited ground troops like a bulldozer through a sapling forest. Cassian’s already heard that Mothma is desperately looking for a replacement for that particular commander, but until then…until then, they will have to deal with more people like Petty Officer Daniel Swellish, shattered young sentients who signed up to avenge their families or fight back against oppression or just because it was the right thing to do, and have been thrown so many times into the worst, most dangerous situations that counter-intel keeps finding them curled up in corners or sitting in dark rooms, staring at their blasters with that awful, empty look in their eyes. “Not like this,” Cassian says again, and reaches to pull Swellish’s fingers off the blaster. He moves slow, and careful, and lets the boy relax his fingers before he pulls it free and tucks it away in his own belt. 

“Maybe someday, yes,” he says honestly when the kid looks up at him with that terrible expression, his thoughts obvious on his face. “But they will have to work for it. We give them  _nothing_ ,” Cassian leans forward, let’s his voice harden and his eyes narrow because he can see that this is reaching the boy, this is striking the chord that he needs to strike to drown out the static in the kid’s head. “They may have taken everything else from us, Daniel, and they may yet take us, too, but we will not give them anything that they do not tear from our hands.” Cassian meets the boys eyes and waits, counting in his head, one, two, three…and then Swellish nods, his eyes dark but no longer so empty, and Cassian sighs and leans back. “Come on,” he says in a calmer tone. “Let’s go talk to Doctor Weylan. He can help you, alright? He can help.” The kid follows without a word, and Cassian hates himself a little for the flicker of hope he sees in the kid’s face when he says the word “help.” But just because the doctors have never done shit for Cassian doesn’t mean they will fail this soldier, this boy who is nowhere near as far gone into the Alliance as Lieutenant Cassian Andor. The extra blaster is heavy on his belt, and the emptiness in Swellish’s eyes calls to the emptiness in his own, but Cassian’s own words ring back at him.  _Not like this. They might take everything from me, but I will give them nothing._

 

* * *

 

 

“Stay with me,” Jyn presses her forehead to his cheek and her arm tightens around his waist. It sends a wave of pain cascading up through his surely shattered rib cage, but it’s muffled and distant, and he can ignore it. This body doesn’t even feel like his own, and to be honest, he’s fine with that right now. The only part he wants to claim is the little patch of skin on his cheek and the corner of his mouth where he can feel her breath - that feels real, that feels warm and painless and -

“Stay with me,” she says again, a little more desperately, and they lurch forward another few steps, out towards the beach, out towards the dawning light - it’s not dawn, not a new day beginning, not that way, but Cassian is so damn tired and hurt and done with all of it, done with caring, done with everything but the sensation of Jyn’s breath on his cheek and the grim determination in her face as she half-carries him through the sand. 

“You should go,” he says at last, but it’s an empty gesture, really, and they both know it. He would let her go (it’s not like he could stop her, but still, he would let her go), but she won’t do it, won’t drop him and run, won’t  _leave_  and that understanding twists inside him with a terrible sort of joy, an exquisite sort of pain. 

“Together, or not at all,” she replies immediately, and drags him another few steps. 

It occurs to Cassian that this is the first time anyone has ever said those words to him, and yet somehow, they feel as familiar as an old jacket, as familiar as a home. 

“Together,” he manages, and she turns her head to flash a worn, bloody smile at him, tight and sad and scared but so, so beautiful. 

“Stay with me,” she says one last time, an order and a question all in one, and Cassian nods, ignoring the pain that arcs up and down his spine as he does. 

“All the way.”


	17. Drunk writing: I will return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt is from [@thereigning-lorelia](http://thereigning-lorelai.tumblr.com/), who sent:
> 
>  
> 
> _"I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame."_
> 
>  
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171765426054/hi-dearfirst-of-all-congratulations-amazing-news).

“Wait for me,” the rebel spy tells her brusquely, looking over her head at something on the other side of the bustling Jedha crowd. Before Jyn can demand any answers, or even be surprised at his abrupt trust, he vanishes into the crowd, leaving her standing alone and unsupervised. For just a moment, contempt and suspicion flash through her mind. What kind of idiot leaves a prisoner alone with nothing more than a curt order to wait? Unless he had planted a tracker on her, or this was meant as a test and he’s watching her through his sniper’s scope to see if she runs? But the feeling fades quickly, quicker than it should, because it hardly matters. She’s not going to run. She wants to know -  _needs_  to know - where this path she’s chosen leads, if it ends with Saw or her father or just some blaster to the back of the head in an alley, the way she’s long expected her life will. And maybe he knows it, this rebel spy who lets her carry a blaster and doesn’t even try to shackle her hands, who walks too close and speaks of hope as if it is a tangible thing that can be picked up and carried and built into something greater. Maybe he knows that she is determined to stay. Maybe he will come back and be surprised to find her waiting. It hardly matters what he thinks. 

Jyn waits.

 

* * *

 

“It’s only for a few days,” Captain Andor says tentatively, like he’s not entirely sure she wants to hear it, or that she cares to know. He stands in the door of the U-Wing and doesn’t shift his weight or fidget his hands, but Jyn can see the nervousness hidden in the lines of his body and the careful attention of his eyes. Behind him, his duffel sits unguarded on the floor, and Jyn almost smirks at it, because he really did have a terrible habit of just throwing his bag around without care for who might rummage through it. At least, he does it around her. He lets down a lot of walls around her, and she’s not entirely sure he knows that he does it. She’s not entirely sure she wants him to know. She looks from the bag back to him, hunting for something to say, and for some reason his hand curls tightly around the sniper’s scope clipped to his belt. His face hardens, and she knows suddenly why he is being sent out again, so soon after his medical clearance finally came through, and why she has not been permitted to go with him. Her security clearance is still in question, some of the Intel higher ups digging in their heels and demanding further investigation on her past and her loyalties. Jyn doesn’t mind, she understands paranoia and suspicion, would be confused and worried if they didn’t show a little concern about her to be honest…but right now, looking at the tight lines on Cassian’s face and the way his knuckles whiten, she wants abruptly to ignore the whole clearance issue and just walk onto that ship with him. 

Instead, she nods, and reaches up to rest her hand on his chest. Under her palm, his heart speeds up just slightly, and his eyes flick from her face to her hand and back again. “I’ll be here,” she says firmly, letting him see her complete lack of judgment. He swallows, nods, and steps back once, then once again, and finally turns to walk into the ship. The engines whine, the door slides shut, and Jyn steps back and watches him vanish into the sky for a long moment before turning back to her own work. If he’s not back in three days, she decides, she will take one of these poorly guarded ships and go looking for him. 

In the meantime, Jyn waits.

 

* * *

 

“I’ll be right back,” her partner says quietly into her hair as the medical droid rolls past them, then he drops his arm from her shoulders and follows it into the medical ward where Leia Organa paces in front of a huge viewscreen and Luke Skywalker lies still on the bed behind her. Jyn leans against the corridor wall and watches the traffic of rebel soldiers and droids and the occasional harassed-looking medic bustle by, although the majority of her attention is focused discreetly on the man standing a few paces down, talking quietly to the big wookiee that followed Solo everywhere. (Well, not everywhere, apparently, although Jyn’s been led to believe that his current separation from Solo is through no choice of his own). The newcomer wears an expensive but rumpled suit, and his hair is cut into a style currently in fashion on wealthy Core worlds, but it’s mussed and clearly dirty. A rich man put through a firefight, and according to Leia, he is a new ally.

But neither Jyn nor Cassian have survived this long without a healthy suspicion of strangers, particularly well-dressed ones. So Cassian goes to speak with the leader of the rebellion (whatever the official titles might say, this is Leia’s rebellion now, and everyone knows it) and Jyn stays to watch this Lando Calrissian. For now, he seems content to wait quietly until he is summoned, but Jyn is ready to deal with it if he tries to slip off toward, say, the engine room, or the life support systems. A part of her resents this, resents Cassian leaving her here on guard while he deals with whatever drama is going on in Command, but it’s an old, fragmented, stupid part, a leftover from her time alone when she worried that every slight was a sign that she was about to be discarded. It’s been three years since she’s really believed that of Cassian. He made these choices for purely tactical reasons. And he’s not leaving her behind so much as he is trusting her to hold the line.

Lando Calrissian turns and nods at her, Jyn nods back because there is no point in pretending she’s not here to watch him, and somewhere down the hallway, Cassian works to sort out the newest mess the rebellion has blundered into this time. But he will be back, and she already knows that he will need her to help him untangle this knot, he will expect her to be at his side through it as she expects him to be at her own.

Jyn settles more comfortably against the wall, and waits.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jyn, wait for me,  _please, wait - ”_  Cassian yells through the comm, his voice crackling with static and desperation, but there is no time, no time to wait, Jyn ducks under a storm of Imperial blaster bolts and low crawls through the mud and blood and  _there is_   _no time_.  Cassian is still half a klick away, somewhere in this giant alien forest, and if Jyn waits for him now, then he will walk directly into the skirmish and probably get himself killed.

“Hard down, low pass, scramble five,” she manages to croak into the comm, ( _major wound, moving south, switching to back up frequency five_ ), and tries to thumb the comm switch to the new freq but the high pitched whine of a grenade whistling through the air catches her attention, one of the little predator people from this planet screeches a warning, and she throws herself into a hard roll, her arms over her head and desperately praying that she moved far enough -

**_BOOM!_ **

The shockwave of the grenade throws rocks and twigs and something soft and wet and fuzzy against her back, but Jyn doesn’t stop to look around, she scrabbles to her feet and rockets southward, ignoring the ringing in her ears and pressing clumsy wet fingers against the comm buttons to scramble the channel. She can’t stop and check to make sure it’s really on back up five, but she does take the extra second to make sure the transponder is switched safely to “off” so the Imps can’t track her movements (so Cassian can’t, either, because if he catches up to her now he’s going to get fucking shot and Jyn will be damned to every one of the infinite hells before she allows  _that_ to happen). The blood drips down her side and pain strangles her lungs, but she can’t stop, can’t wait, can’t look behind her. Cassian has to get through the line, has to get his message out, and Jyn’s objective is to keep him alive. She’s done a shite job of it, so far, though she’s tried her best. Drawing those Imps off from his position was the only way she could see of getting him a clear shot to the friendly troops on the ground, and she took it without regret. She can’t undo that good work by going back now.

The ground shakes underfoot, a dozen tiny earthquakes rippling out from the AT-STs scattered throughout this forest, and another larger quake from an air-to-surface missile striking somewhere nearby (or perhaps it was only a fighter crashing into the dirt, she doesn’t know, the air battle is happening somewhere up above this massive canopy and Jyn has enough problems on the ground).

Speaking of fucking  _problems_  - white armor flashes out from the brush at her left, and Jyn slams her truncheon into the ‘trooper’s head before she’s even really registered it in her hand. She gets the second one with a shot through the heart, the third with a shot to the gut, but the fourth,  _nim gar troac varbeck_ , the fourth Imperial asswipe gets behind her and slams his rifle butt into her back. She drops, a short truncated scream tearing from her throat before she hits dirt again, and she scrambles to reclaim her fallen blaster but it’s too far away and everything is happening in sick, slow motion - she can already feel the barrel of the ‘trooper’s rifle centering on her head, already feel her mother’s kyber crystal digging into her throat hot and sharp, will they find it when the battle is over? Will someone get it back to Cassian, will he even know what happened to her, _oh, no, Mama, I didn’t want to follow in your steps this way, didn’t want to leave, I hope he knows that I didn’t -_

The rifle fires, the blaster bolt sizzles through the air, and Jyn -

\- is still alive. 

She’s still alive?

Something heavy crashes to the ground near her legs, crashing footsteps pound through the brush towards her. Hands on her shoulders wrenching her onto her back, running frantically along her bloody hairline and down to her rapid pulse in her throat -

“Cassian,” she croaks, and opens her eyes. 

“Don’t,” he says quietly, his voice hard and dark, furious as she has not seen him in years, “ever cut me off like that again.”

The sounds of blaster fire and savage screaming echo in the distance, but for the moment, they are caught in a tiny bubble of silence broken only by their harsh breathing and the pounding of Jyn’s heartbeat in her ears.

“The message,” she manages, and grabs for his jacket to pull herself up. Cassian catches her hand and presses her firmly back to the dirt, fumbling in his pocket for something - bacta patch, emergency concussion medication, and he looks very grey, so she must look pretty bad. Jyn lets him pin her with one hand and stares at his face. 

“Sent it through,” he snaps, not meeting her eyes, focusing on the blood at her temple and on her chest. “Would have caught up to you an hour ago if you hadn’t  _turned off the transponder_.” He snarls the last bit, but his hands are gentle against her head as he applies the bacta patch and holds the pill close to her lips. Jyn swallows obediently, and accepts the water from his canteen when he props her head up and holds that up to her mouth, too. 

“You shouldn’t have come back,” she blurts, though she knows he won’t like hearing it. But it feels, oddly, like the words have been hovering inside her head for a long time, longer than this fight on Endor, longer than the few hours she’s been running, leading the enemy away from him. Maybe longer than they’ve been partners, longer even than the time he ran through fire and death on Jedha to drag her away from her father’s flickering image and faded memories. Maybe she’s been thinking this since she turned around in the Jedha market and saw him standing behind her, his face dark and his hands curling around her wrist ( _come on, we're not here to make friends)_. She's been thinking these words since the first time he came back, when she hadn’t really expected it. _Force and fuck,_ that had been so long ago, hadn’t it? And yet she can still smell the spices in the air of that market, still hear the subdued murmur of the occupied city, still see the strange angles of Captain Cassian Andor’s face after he came back-

“Jyn,” Cassian snaps from somewhere over her head, and she blinks, crashing back from memory to reality with a jolt. “Stay with me,” he orders, harsh and still so angry with her. But then his shoulders sag and his eyes squeeze shut, and he pulls her up against his chest and wraps her tight in his arms. Jyn fumbles awkwardly to latch her heavy blood-slicked hands on his arm, and turns her head as far as she can manage against his clammy skin. He’s shaking a little, and his voice catches as he growls into her hair, “Stay here, please.”

“I will,” she mumbles, thinking that it’s a bit ridiculous that he would even feel the need to say it, because Jyn has always been determined to stay. But if this is what he needs, well, that’s fine. 

“I’m here,” she promises. “I’m here.”


	18. Drunk writing: life before you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one. This chapter's prompt is from @sleepykalena, who is also [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyKalena/pseuds/SleepyKalena), who sent:
> 
> "I had a life before you."
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171762847614/what-a-coincidence-its-like-your-superiors-have).

“Heads up!” the tech shouts from overhead, and Jyn darts to the side instinctively, her mind kicking into overdrive and her blaster already in her hand. A beat later, she realizes with a flash of panic that Cassian has not followed her under the shelter of the X-wing, and she almost falls as she whirls around mid-stride to check on him. _Is he hurt, did someone open fire, why isn’t -_

Cassian holds out his hand and the falling wrench drops into it with a sharp _smack_. Cassian glances it at it almost casually, then reaches out and snags the second falling tool from the air as neatly as if he’d known this would happen when they walked into the hangar. Above him, the tech leans over the fighter craft’s wing and waves. “Sorry, sir, slipped on some grease and knocked my stupid tool bag over. You all good down there?”

“Fine, tech sergeant,” Cassian replies calmly, glancing sideways at Jyn, who very casually brushes imaginary lint off her shoulder and stubbornly refuses to blush. There was nothing shameful about good survival instincts. She does, however, shoot a quick glare up at the careless tech, before dismissing him from her attention.

Cassian’s lips quirk as he watches her saunter back towards him as if nothing extraordinary has just happened. He tosses the wrench up lightly in one hand, catching it again, measuring it’s weight in his palm. “There’s a ladder over there,” the tech calls, pointing to the back of the X-Wing. “I’m still elbow deep in this wiring, so would you mind bringing those up? Uh, please, sir?”

Cassian flips the second tool in his other hand, some kind of screwdriver with a strange shaped tip, and to Jyn’s mild alarm and suspicion, his smile spreads a little wider. “Certainly, tech sergeant,” he says pleasantly, and then he flips both the wrench and the screwdriver into the air, and catches them neatly in the opposite hands. 

“What -” Jyn cuts herself off, and stares as he does it again, this time so fast that she almost doesn’t see what he’s doing, then again, reversing direction and rolling them around his wrists before sending them airborne a third time. 

“Oh, hey, that’s pretty good, sir!” the tech laughs from above, and another tech pops her head up from over fuselage to watch. A couple of hanger crew pause as they walk by, grinning at Cassian’s unexpected display of dexterity, and an astromech whistles appreciatively. Cassian sends the tools flying in a tight circle, his eyes turned up to the tech, not watching his own hands catching and twisting. 

“Ready?” he asks, and when the tech grins and holds out his hands, Cassian casually flips first the wrench and then the screwdriver high over his own head, and they drop perfectly into the tech's palms. 

“Awesome!” The tech calls, “thanks! Oh, and, uh, sorry about dropping them on you!”

Cassian waves him off with a bland expression and shoves his hands back in his jacket pockets as he starts to walk off, turning to look expectantly at Jyn as he goes. She strides to catch up, and stares pointedly at him as they pass through the tangle of the hanger.

Cassian ignores it for a full thirty seconds before he breaks, his mouth curling back into a small smile. “I had a life before you,” he jokes quietly.

“As a carnival juggler?” She raises an eyebrow, but his humor is infectious and she finds herself smiling too, pleased that he is so pleased (although if he gets smug on her, she’s going to throw him over her shoulder and pin him down until he gets over himself). 

Cassian doesn’t rise to her bait, he only shrugs and sidesteps closer to her to get around a passing Twi’lek. In the brief moment when Cassian is crowding her against the wall, his back turned to the Twi’lek to allow her passage in the narrow corridor, he leans his head down and drops his voice to nearly a whisper, “What can I say? I’m good with my hands.”

Then the Twi’lek is gone and Cassian moves away, and Jyn narrows her eyes at the self-satisfied tint of his smile. (Oh yes, she is definitely going to pin him down, as soon as they are out of this hall and somewhere a little more private.)

“So I hear,” she murmurs, and walks a little closer, enjoying the way his shoulders tense slightly when she brushes against his arm. “But I don’t believe rumors without proof.”

Cassian laughs.


	19. Drunk writing: what I love you means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from [@crazy-fruit](http://crazy-fruit.tumblr.com/), aka [Ivaylo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivaylo/pseuds/Ivaylo), who sent:
> 
>  
> 
> _"I don't really know what I love you means. I think it means don't leave me here alone."_
> 
>  
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171760887204/offers-breakfast-stupid-timezones-including).

Jyn wakes up because Cassian is thrashing in his medical bed again, monitors beeping urgently as his heart rate accelerates and his subconscious activity spikes. The droids are already responding, rolling in a practiced dance around his bed, and Jyn grips the railing of her own bed tightly as she watches. After an agonizing three minutes, the drugs kick in and Cassian settles again, although his eyes blink halfway open and his hands clench on his sheets. Fighting the drugs, she thinks with a mix of exasperation and understanding. He really doesn’t like to be drugged, she’s finding. 

She waits a minute longer until the droids roll off, satisfied that the patient is no longer able to harm himself (which just goes to show how little they know him). Then she pulls herself laboriously from her own bed, pushing against sore muscles and exhaustion and her own unpleasant cocktail of medications to rock to her unsteady feet. Cassian hears her, and rolls his head awkwardly to look at her as she staggers across the short distance between them. His eyes are heavy and slightly out of focus, but he still won’t let the drugs pull him under. They won’t give him stronger doses, claiming his head injury is too great a danger to risk heavy medications. Jyn presses her lips together and doesn’t tell them that he would clearly rather be in pain than be caught in this half-haze, this uncertain fog of his nightmares and his sluggish body. Hells, it frightens her, too, and she’s not even the one all fucked up and lost in it.

She staggers to his bed and leans against the side until he makes a vague grab for her hand, as close to an invitation as he can offer, and all that she needs. Even more carefully than she pulled herself out of her own bed, Jyn pulls herself into his. The first night she had tried this, the medical staff had pitched a fit in the morning, and done dozens of tests on both of them to make sure they hadn’t pulled their IVs loose or cross-contaminated or whatever. Jyn hadn’t been listening. But the second morning, the head doctor had bustled in, taken one look at them tangled in Cassian’s narrow bed, and then bustled back out again. Within an hour, a Wookie-sized medical bed had been rolled in, Cassian had been transferred onto it, and the head doctor had patted Jyn’s arm as he checked her over. He’d also handed her a datapad full of books on trauma therapy. She hasn’t read any of the files yet, but if Cassian keeps shouting himself awake, she might give them a shot. It’s not like she has better things to be doing at the moment.

Well, at this _exact_ moment, yes, she does, because crawling into the big medical bed takes up all her focus and effort, and then situating herself around all his IVs and monitor hookups and thin, tangled sheets is harder than it should be. But she gets there eventually, on her side and curled up against Cassian’s shoulder, his hand gripping her knee when she shifts it against his hip. She slides her hand under his neck as delicately as she can and wraps both arms around his shoulders. Only then does he sigh and let his eyes fall closed.

In the morning, the doctor who checks on them will shake her head and pull back the sheet to check their driplines, and she won’t say anything about Jyn’s intrusion but she will poke and prod at Cassian and generally make a nuisance of herself until Jyn slowly disentangles and moves back to her own bed without a word. That’s been their routine for roughly five days, and Jyn anticipates it will carry on for a few more yet. She’ll be cleared before he is, and no doubt they will want her out of medical to make room for someone else. That’s alright, though, she knows how to slice through the old locks they have in this ward, and there’s still enough space in his bed for her. And though he doesn’t say it, the way Cassian relaxes against her tells Jyn all she needs to know about her welcome there.

Jyn nuzzles against his neck and closes her own eyes. There is no one here to see her, no one to judge her, no one to threaten her.  The beeping of the monitors is soft and slow around her, his heartbeat steady and warm against her, and his breathing slowing as he slips at last into sleep. Jyn takes a deep breath, pushes away any thoughts of tomorrow, and follows him there.


	20. Drunk writing: backing slowly away from hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from [andromeda3116](http://andromeda3116.tumblr.com/), who sent:
> 
>  
> 
> _"Sometimes you can only find Heaven by backing slowly away from Hell."_
> 
>  
> 
> The original post is [here.](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171749978454/for-the-favorite-quote-snippet-sometimes-you-can)

“To maximize the probability that we will survive the trip to Jedha,” Kay tells him, “I recommend you leave the asset in binders.”

Cassian frowns at the two datapads he has just pulled from his desk, tucks one neatly into his duffel and erases the other. He’ll return the blank one to the quartermaster before he gets on the U-Wing. “It’s a two week trip, Kay.”

“And she will undoubtedly attempt to kill you, incapacitate me, and steal the ship. The practical option is to neutralize her as much as possible.”

Cassian zips up his bag and considers how he will answer. On the one hand…well, Kay has a point. His “asset” is a dangerous creature, already proven violent and uncooperative. Sergeant Melshi's face needed six stitches and a bone stabilizer in the jaw, and his second in command had five cracked ribs (and Erso had done that in approximately _seven seconds_ , according to Kay's report). On the other hand…Cassian has seen the raw marks around Erso’s wrists, the gaunt way her bones poke through her skin after months in an Imperial prison, the hunted look in her eyes when the rebel security guards moved forward to walk her back out of Command to…wherever they were prepping her for this mission. Maybe getting her some clothes that don’t stink of unwashed bodies, mine shafts, and old blood.

How many times, he wonders, has she been shackled in her life? 

A small, sick part of him whispers  _still, it would be smarter…_

Where would he even get shackles? The only ones he can imagine finding at this short notice will be the ones she wore here. The ones with the Imperial stamp on the side, just above the thin blue lines of the veins in her raw wrists.

“Are you prepared to depart?” Kay demands, and Cassian realizes that he’s staring at the now-blank spare datapad in his hands. 

“Yes,” he replies with a little more force than necessary, and on impulse tucks the blank datapad into his bag, too. It’s a long trip to Jedha, and maybe it will keep her hands busy. “Go ahead to the ship and prep for launch, I’m going to pick up the - to pick up Jyn Erso.”

Kay’s optics are steady on his face for a moment, until Cassian shakes his head and says, “And no, I’m not going to shackle her. Factor that into your calculations, if you must. Let’s go.”

“The odds that she will attack you increase by twenty-three percent,” Kay replies instantly, but mercifully, he does not argue the point further.

“Maybe,” Cassian acknowledges, more to himself than his friend. “But some risks are better than the alternative.”


	21. Drunk writing: hearts starve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did a lot of these. This prompt is from [@firefeufuego](https://firefeufuego.tumblr.com/), who sent: 
> 
> _"Hearts starve as well as bodies."_
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171749494569/congrats-in-honour-of-victorian-labour-day).

Bodhi asks, “When was the last time you ate?” 

Jyn shrugs, because it was recently enough and she doesn’t understand the weird expression on Bodhi’s face, his eyebrows raised almost to his messy hairline and his mouth twisted oddly. She doesn't understand why he sighs loudly and grabs her arm, pulling her off the crate where she is perched (she also doesn’t really understand why she allows it, but she does). Jyn doesn’t really understand why Bodhi is making such a big fuss about eating, or why he goes out of his way to barter an extra bowl of pudding from one of the other Alliance pilots and then plops it down in front of her. A stubborn part of her almost wants to shove the food away and glare at him defiantly. She does _not_ need to be babied. But she’s been hungry too often to play that sort of game, and anyway…well, he doesn’t ask for anything in turn, doesn’t seem to be manipulating her to any goal. He just…wants her to eat. 

So Jyn eats the crappy rations and the pudding and even remembers how to say _thank you_ afterwards, and tries not to think too hard about why Bodhi smiles so wide when she does.

 

* * *

 

Chirrut asks, “Have you properly stretched the muscles in your leg today?”

Jyn frowns, because Chirrut’s definition of “properly” seems to run in line with those idiot medical personnel’s definition, which as far as Jyn can tell means “pose in weird, vulnerable ways out in the open where someone can come along and grab you while your injured leg screams in agony.” But Chirrut sighs and knocks the back of her knee out with his staff (gently enough that it doesn’t really hurt, but firmly enough that she can’t lock the knee and refuse to fall forward). “Breathe in,” he commands calmly, as if they do this every day, and kneels beside her, taking her shin in his hands and bending her leg back towards her chest. It hurts, and it’s...it’s  _weird,_ and Jyn thinks fleetingly of kicking out at his chest with her other leg to break free and then running for the door. Instead, she finds herself inhaling slowly and grimacing through the pain as Chirrut carefully maneuvers her leg into the “proper” position, making some crack about finally having a stretching partner whose joints don’t groan and pop with every moment. He seems to be waiting for a response, so after a minute Jyn offers an acknowledging grunt, and doesn’t really know what to make of his laugh. “Yes,” Chirrut chuckles, and bends her leg again, “he says that too.”

Jyn’s mouth twitches into a smile for some reason, and she lets Chirrut work her leg into awkward and uncomfortable positions, and afterwards tries not to notice how much better it feels.

 

* * *

 

Cassian asks, “Does the jacket fit alright?”

Jyn hesitates, and curls her fingers along the zipper of the dark green coat, hunting for the right words to tell him that it fits fine, baggy enough to sew in concealed pockets, close cut enough to prevent excess material that can be grabbed in a fight. She glances up at him through her eyelashes and wonders how to tell him that she definitely did not need to be looked after but is shockingly pleased that he is doing it anyway. Finally, she settles on, “yeah,” and then buries her hands in the pockets of it with an air of finality. 

She half expects him to push (Cassian is not a man who just lets things go, she’s finding), but all he says is a slow, “it looks good on you,” and then he falls silent, his eyes as trained on the hallway before them as her own.

She’s grateful for the silence, because it shelters her from any more awkward attempts to…to what? Prep her for the upcoming mission? Help her? Care for her?

“I’m not,” she says abruptly to the opposite wall, refusing to turn and see if he’s looking at her. “Nobody ever,” she tries again, but the words fail her and she ends up scowling down at her gloves (gloves that Baze had dropped in her lap yesterday, then patted her shoulder with a heavy hand and walked away without a word. Baze, at least, doesn’t make it weird). 

“Me neither,” Cassian says quietly, and it startles her enough that she does turn and look, to see him staring at his feet. He’s wearing the boots she scrounged for him from the last shipment, the ones she had bartered from the next guy in line for a pair with several bottles of pilfered booze and a quick slice into his homeworld’s holonet servers for some things he had to leave behind when he fled his world to join the Alliance. Cassian had told her that she paid too much, that he was on the list to get new boots the next shipment that came in (which could have been tomorrow, or could have been in five months). It wasn’t a practical use of resources and time, he told her carefully, and Jyn had rolled her eyes and shoved the boots into his chest.

Jyn looks down at Cassian’s scuffed boots and for just a moment, she  _gets_ it. It’s gone again almost immediately, that brief moment of clarity, but she decides it isn’t worth dwelling on the loss. “Come on,” she says instead. “Bodhi wants to meet us in the mess. He says he’s got extra pudding.”

Cassian nods, and follows her to meet their friend.


	22. Hangover writing: faith carried him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, the vodka wore off and I had a nice sleep, and then I finished the rest of the prompts. This one is from an anon, who sent:
> 
> _"Her faith carried him with her."_   
>  (bonus points for Rogue One novelization quotes!)
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171748858229/her-faith-carried-him-with-her-ro).

“Someone’s out there,” Jyn tells him, her face bleeding and her eyes bright with triumph, bright with hope, and for one shining moment all the wracking pain of Cassian’s broken body vanishes and he believes her, he believes her, he believes -

 

“It’s not over,” Jyn grips his hand and leans over the medical bed, her jaw set stubbornly, her eyes bright with tears she refuses to shed. Behind her, Bodhi rocks with his head on his knees and Baze grips his thin shoulder with his unburned hand, and the medical staff carefully do not make eye contact because they are the burned and blasted survivors of a suicide mission that wasn’t even  _worth_  it because the plans are gone - “Cassian,” Jyn says again, her voice brittle as glass and hard as steel. “It’s not over,” she repeats, and he realizes that the shining in her eyes is not tears at all, it’s certainty, as real and as solid as her hand in his, and some of the nausea recedes against that uncompromising honesty.

 

“I’m not leaving you,” Jyn spits, her fingers digging viciously into the hole in his shoulder, blood making her slip, determination making her try again, and again. He wants to argue more, wants to grab her and shove her towards the door before the ‘troopers come pouring through it and they are both lost, but a small, selfish part of him, a part that he thought long strangled in his childhood, is so, so glad that she is still kneeling next to him with her eyes narrow and her hands working at the bacta patch on his shoulder. “We’re leaving together,” she bites out, as if he has protested aloud, but his heartbeat is too loud in his ears to think any more. But Jyn knows what to do, Jyn is getting them both out, so when she tugs at his arm, Cassian focuses on following her and doesn’t worry too hard about where.

 

“We destroyed it once,” she whispers into his hair, her arms shaking around him but still strong as iron, strong as her faith, and Cassian closes his eyes and pulls her as tight against him as he can, tight enough to feel her every muscle twitch and shiver, tight enough to draw some of that conviction from her soul into his own. “We destroyed the fucking thing once, we can do it again.”

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Jyn promises, her skin still slick against his, her hands caressing lightly where a moment ago they had clawed desperately against him. He doesn’t mind, he had been just as aggressive, just as needy, just as desperate to drown out the dizzying tilt of a world remade around him. The soft sounds Jyn made had temporarily shoved all memory of voices shouting  _hail the New Republic!_  or  _victory at last!_ But when they fell silent again, Mothma’s grave voice said again  _thank you for your service, Major, but may I ask what you plan to do now?_ Jyn had felt the tension lancing through his body again, and now she wrapped herself around him and kissed his throat and said in that tone that had brought him to Scarif, and had brought him back again, that tone that kept him warm and moving for long years after he should have been cold and still,that tone that cut straight through the bullshit of the world and to the truth of it all. “We’ll figure it out together.”

“Yes,” Cassian replied, a truth for her truth, and felt them both relax against one another. “I believe you.”


	23. Hangover writing: rooted in friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt came from [@moonprincess92nz](https://moonprincess92nz.tumblr.com/), aka [Moonprincess92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonprincess92/pseuds/Moonprincess92) on AO3, who sent: 
> 
> _"It seems to me that the best relationships - the ones that last - are frequently the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is... suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with._
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171748241209/congrats-girl-and-the-quote-im-gonna-prompt-you).

Jyn can’t really pin down the exact moment she knew that she loved Cassian. She thinks that maybe there wasn’t one, no single defining time when she looked around and thought “Oh, I’m in love with Cassian Andor.” It happened so gradually, her slow and wary understanding of his actions, of his words, of his expressions. When he brought her tea made the way she liked it without needing to be asked, she understood without thinking that he did it because he cared about her, but she didn’t consider how much it meant to her. When she kneaded her fingers hard into the tight knots on his shoulders and smiled at the way his head fell back and his eyes slid closed, she did not stop to analyze why it was so important for her to soothe his aches and pains. It was just…well, it was just what they did. They walked side by side, they fought back to back, they joked quietly with their heads close together, they slept curled around one another’s warmth. Recognition did not hit Jyn on the back of the head in some dramatic fashion - it filtered slowly in like morning light through the viewscreen of their shuttle on a mission, when she opened her eyes and saw the curve of Cassian shoulder. It slipped in quietly like his hand under the edge of her jacket and pressed warm against her lower back.  When people spoke of them together, as a unit, she accepted it without question or concern. When Cassian pressed a soft kiss to her mouth and asked  _do you want this, too?,_ she hadn’t even been startled. It was just…how they were. It was Cassian, and the perfect way all his edges aligned with her own.

_Yes,_  she replied, and laughed at how matter of fact her voice came out.  _Of course_.

 

* * *

 

Cassian knew that he loved Jyn Erso at exactly 22:43 on the fifth day of March, Lothal Year 3277 (later re-designated as 0 ABY). She slipped through the faded curtains partitioning off his medical bed from the rest of the medward on Yavin IV, her eyes reflecting the glow of his monitors in the dark of the ward. It had been hard to see her face in the darkness, but already he was familiar with the hard line of her shoulders that said she was afraid, already he knew that the slow, halting way she moved towards him meant she wanted to touch him and was unsure of her welcome. Behind her, the monitor glared red with his heart rate, and the little clock in the corner said it was forty minutes past 2200, night shift’s starting time. Jyn had sidled up to the bed, and Cassian had summoned up every scrap of energy he had left after the painkillers (and the pain) to lift one hand and wrap his bruised fingers carefully around her wrist. He had considered and then discarded meaningless questions like  _are you alright?_ or  _did you dream of Alderaan and Jedha again?_ and at last croaked only one necessary, terrifying word.  _Stay._ Behind her, his heart monitor had beeped, registering the increase, and for one horrible moment she had not moved. And then she had slipped carefully into the empty space in the narrow medical bed, and wound her fingers around his. 

_I will,_  she whispered, and over her shoulder his heart monitor beeped again.  _Cassian,_  Jyn said into his shoulder, her hand tight and her voice steady.  _I’m staying with you._

_Good,_ he said or thought or cried, he didn’t remember later and didn’t really care, the details of it immaterial to the strange, painful, glorious truth that Jyn could have left him but chose to stay. That she wanted to stay. That he was not alone, and would not be alone again. 

_Good._


	24. Hangover writing: so many problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from an anon, who sent:
> 
> _"Houston, I have so many problems."_   
>  (fun story: I have said something very similar to that by accident over the radio during a scenario that very much inspired this short story. Controlled crash landings are still crashes, and they make for good bar stories but are no fun at all at the time.)
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171747691994/rebelcaptain-snippet-prompt-if-youre-up-for-it).

“Scorpio Three, you are cleared to enter the STAR 2 landing pattern,” the mechanized voice crackles over the old ship’s comm. 

This ship is ancient and practically falling apart, so Bodhi has to mash down hard on the comm switch to make sure it connects when he replies, “Scorpio Three, copy, STAR 2, at initial, beginning descent.”

“That sounds ominous,” Cassian remarks when the comm simply squeals in response, a loud screech of static that makes Bodhi wince, although neither of his two companions so much as flinch. Bloody stone faces, he grumbles to himself, shooting a sideways glance at Cassian’s mild expression and Jyn’s blank stare. He doesn’t have time to complain about it, though, because the automated landing system is flashing at him, telling him that the system designed to guide them through the local spaceport’s landing pattern is malfunctioning. Again.

“Next time we get sent out,” Bodhi tells Cassian with a glower at the shaky, barely responsive controls, “make sure we don’t get a ship that’s on it’s last, it’s last pulsars, okay? I’m not asking for the newest luxury FX-77 or anything,” he adds as Jyn leans over his shoulder and points at a blinking red light that claims they are still at hyperspeed despite the fact that they haven’t been for about twenty minutes. “But something that isn’t, isn’t about to collapse around our ears would be, you know, nice.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Cassian says in a distracted tone as he flips the switch to activate the co-pilot controls, a worried little wrinkle forming on his brow as he tries to clear the faulty warning that Jyn had pointed out. Jyn shifts to lean over his shoulder now, her hand tight on the back of his chair and her face far too close to his neck as she stares out the grimy viewscreen. Or, well, what would be too close for Bodhi - or really, anyone else, ever - but Bodhi guesses that’s pretty normal for her and Cassian. At any rate, Cassian doesn’t seem to mind, focused as he is on the flashing controls.

“Scorpio Three, you are off vector,” the comm crackles again, Approach Control getting antsy as their little ship bucks and shifts fitfully along the carefully planned trajectory towards the landing bays. 

“Scorpio Three, correcting,” Bodhi replies, trying hard to sound professional and unaffected and mostly just coming off apologetic. He yanks at the controls, but to his disgust, the ship responds like a drunk bantha, rolling sluggishly upwards and then listing gracelessly to the right. “Oh no,” Bodhi mutters, and then feels a bit childish, because he can think of about twenty different curse words that more accurately describe what’s happening here, but “oh no” is the one that gets past his lips? 

Another light on the console, this time green and flashing, and then another, and Bodhi’s gut twists as Cassian suddenly yanks on his own controls, fighting to correct the drift that Bodhi’s stick clearly couldn’t counter. The old ship shudders and bucks again, no more interested in obeying Cassian's controls than Bodhi's. “Jyn, strap in,” Cassian says in a tight voice, and out of the corner of his eye, Bodhi sees Jyn slide her hand from the seat to Cassian’s shoulder briefly before she staggers back and throws herself into the jump seat behind the pilot’s chairs. 

“Scorpio Three, you are too low, _pull up_ to STAR 2 trajectory,” Approach snaps at them again. 

Bodhi swallows, slaps at the master alarm that has just gone off to silence the ringing bell, and looks at Cassian with his jaw tight and his heart in his throat. “If we declare an emergency,” he says quickly, “will that blow our mission?”

Cassian shoots him a look. “Less than if we fireball across the runway.”

_Right_.

“Scorpio Three, break off STAR 2, return to holding pattern,” Approach orders, clearly fed up with their antics. 

“Scorpio Three, unable,” Bodhi swallows, and then says it. “Scorpio Three, declaring emergency, request vectors to crash pad.”

There is a momentary silence, and then a new voice, cool as ice and sharp as Jyn’s dagger snaps onto the comm. “Scorpio Three, emergency declared. Vector zero-two-five, three down, crash pad is on the alert. Fire team and medical are on their way.”

“Acknowledged,” Bodhi says, then flips off the comm and fights to turn the struggling ship towards the assigned vectors. The crash pad, a special landing space designed to catch flaming wrecks, is already in his view through the faint haze of this planet’s perpetual smog. It looks thankfully close…and terrifyingly far. “If we manage to land,” he says, “you talk us out, out of any inquiry, okay?” The console is flashing like Festival lights, warnings flicking on and then off again of their own accord.

“Agreed,” Cassian says immediately, as relaxed as if they are discussing lunch plans. And even though Bodhi recognizes his friend's Special Calm Voice For Jumpy Contacts, it makes him feel better anyway. Well, as good as he can feel when all four Engine Fire Alarms are now flashing at him.

“And if we crash,” he starts, but Jyn suddenly cuts him off.

“Then he still talks us out of it. It’s fine, Bodhi. We’ll be fine.”

“Agreed,” Cassian says again, and then he utterly terrifies Bodhi by unsnapping his harness and sliding out of the co-pilot’s chair. “We have faith in you,” he says over his shoulder, his jaw relaxed, his tone light, and he strolls calmly out of Bodhi's line of sight like he's just popping off for a sandwich or something. 

“ _What the hells are you doing?”_ Bodhi snarls, but he can’t turn and see where Cassian is going or what that sudden clicking noise is, because the ship bucks again and the comm cracks to life.

“Scorpio Three, fire and medical in place. Remain on vector 0-2-5 and angle down five degrees. State the nature -” the comm squeals with static again, obscuring whatever the voice says.

Bodhi's voice is pitched too high, but he remembers flight school, remembers his instructor smacking his hand with a flight ruler and saying irritably, _enunciate, Rook, clear on the comm means clear in the air._  So he swallows and gets the words out anyway. “Vector 0-2-5, down five. Say again last?” His voice wobbles on the last word, both from nerves and from another uncontrolled jolt from the old ship.

“Calm, Bodhi. Calm,” Cassian says from somewhere behind him, and he still sounds relaxed, thankfully, but there’s an odd muffled quality to his voice. Bodhi can’t turn and look. The ground outside is suddenly very big and very close, and Bodhi suddenly recalls one of his first flight instructors, who was fond of saying  _in the ongoing fight between spacecraft moving hundreds of kilometers an hour and the ground moving zero kilometers an hour, the ground has yet to lose._

Approach must hear the terror in his voice, too, because the edges of the voice soften marginally as they respond clearly and carefully, “Describe your problem, son.”

“It’s a long damn list,” Bodhi mutters as he fights to slow the ship without stalling out and dropping like a stone from the sky, ( _oh crap, did he actually say that on the comm?_ ), but there’s no time to worry about it, no time to reply again because the crash pad looms large in the viewscreen and he has just enough time to notice that this spaceport has called out not one but  _three_  fire response vehicles when the grav-generators in the crash pad suddenly activate and  _yank_ his ship out of the sky.

Bodhi is thrown hard into his harness, the ship tilts ominously up and forward like it’s going to flip - the unforgiving duracrete ground fills his viewscreen and his guts tighten like a fist - 

And then with a metallic groan, the whole damn thing plops down on the crash pad and goes still, the engines cutting out with a final, defeated whine.

Foam coats the viewscreens as the fire response team hoses them down. Bodhi can’t muster up the energy to be annoyed at the overkill response; he’s mostly focused on cataloging all his parts and making sure his heart is still pumping, his lungs still breathing in and out.

“Uh, well,” he says weakly over the sound of the rushing foam. “Guess we’re alive.” He turns in his seat to check on his companions, and for a moment his mind can’t make sense of what he’s looking at. Jyn is in the jump seat, strapped firmly in, but he can’t see her face because…

“Oh,  _seriously?”_ Bodhi demands, throwing his hands in the air. “What happened to “ _we’ll be fine, Bodhi,_ ” he pitches his voice up in poor imitation of Jyn’s voice. “ _Calm down, Bodhi, don’t panic,_ ” he goes on, glaring at the foam on the viewscreen. “ _We have faith in you, Bodhi,”_ he folds his arms and glowers at the stupid foam and tried not to think about the bruises that are surely forming on his chest where the harness dug into him.

Behind him, he can hear Cassian unsnapping the harness around Jyn, and himself, apparently, because the man had acted like everything was just routine and peachy and then he’d gone and crawled into Jyn’s jumpseat and more or less curled around her, both of them clinging to each other like the end was bloody nigh,  _for Force sake._

“I had faith in you,” Cassian says, completely unashamed as he rises from Jyn’s jumpseat and carefully unwinds from around her. Jyn uncurls her fingers a little reluctantly, but she lets him get up, and Bodhi rolls his eyes. He loves his friends, he does, and he’s genuinely happy that they find such comfort in one another, really. 

But come  _on_.

“Sure,” he grumbles, and hits the hatch release switch because the foam has stopped pouring onto the ship and the rescue crew’s next procedural step is to hustle them away from the crash scene. “That’s why you went and assumed the “we’re going to die” position.”

Cassian’s hand is suddenly tight on his shoulder, and to his mild surprise, Jyn steps around to the other side and grips his other one. “We had faith in you,” Cassian says firmly. 

“But we have a bargain,” Jyn finishes, jerking her chin to Cassian. 

“Bargain?” Bodhi repeats, bewildered as Jyn gabs Bodhi’s overnight bag from it’s secured compartment nearby and shoves it into his lap.

“If we die,” Cassian shrugs and moves to gather his own bag. “We go together.”

“Like Scarif,” Jyn murmurs.

Bodhi feels like he ought to address this, ought to maybe point out how severely… _damaged_  that seems, but before he can even begin to order his thoughts, the rescue team charges up the ramp and begins to bark at them with professional urgency to _please_   _evacuate the area in an orderly manner_ ,  _does anyone need medical attention? Move, move, move!_

Cassian is first out, Jyn close at his heels, and Bodhi has to scramble to catch up because he doesn’t always understand his friends, but he not willing to be parted from them, either.

 


	25. Hangover writing: he's with us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from [@roaaoife](https://roaaoife.tumblr.com/), aka [RoaAoife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoaAoife/pseuds/RoaAoife) on AO3, who sent:
> 
>  _"He's with us!"_  
>  (the moment in the movie when Jyn leaps in front of a blaster for Kay)
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171746387034/favorite-quote-for-a-snippet-hes-with-us-jyn).

It shouldn’t mean anything to him. It’s probably a calculated move, a way to get on his good side, a way to make him trust her (Cassian knows better than to trust Jyn Erso. He knows better than to trust anyone, really. He does it anyway). And yet, Jyn throws herself between K2SO (a droid, his droid, his friend, but no one thinks of droids as friends, no one thinks of droids as anything) and Cassian feels it rising in his throat - a small bubble of happiness, of relief, of… _something_.

His education has always been, at best, unconventional (at worst, a pile of random shit), so maybe there  _is_ a word for “I really like that you did this dangerous thing for someone I care about, even though I can’t figure out why you did it and I ought to write it off as cold-blooded, but I desperately want to believe that it isn’t.” Is there a word for that? Is there a word for the way his belly tightens briefly, when she shouts the word “us” like it means something? Like he and Jyn and Kay are all an “us” together?  Is there a word in any language for the odd twist of gratitude and fear in his chest, the sudden desperate need to lunge out there and grab her by arm and drag her out of the line of fire?

If there is a word for any of the chaotic mess in his mind right now, Cassian doesn’t know it. So he does the only thing he can think to do: he shoves it deep into his mental files and steps out, his blaster on the big man with the big gun (who is suddenly ignoring them, as if they are completely uninteresting to him) and moves closer to Jyn.


	26. Hangover writing: rise and rise again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from [@youareiron-andyouarestrong](http://youareiron-andyouarestrong.tumblr.com/), aka [youareiron_andyouarestrong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/works) on AO3, who sent:
> 
> _"Rise and rise again until lambs become lions."_
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171746115249/rise-and-rise-again-until-lambs-become-lions).

Jyn is ten years old and she is small and spindly, she is big green eyes and tiny bruised fingers, she is knee socks and regret, and Saw looks down at her and thinks,  _my child, my responsibility, my student, my ward._   In six years, the softness will be gone, the hands bruised but no longer small, and she will wear whatever is expedient and think little of the past. She will be fierce scowls and raining grenades, she will be body armor and flashing truncheons, she will be knees scabbed from falling and bloody teeth bared in an unrelenting grin, and Saw will look at her and think,  _my warrior, my legacy, my justice, my last gift to an undeserving galaxy._

Cassian is ten years old and he is slight and brittle, he is watchful dark eyes and nimble fingers, he is a too-large jacket and memory, and when Draven looks at him, he cannot recall what madness prompted him to take the boy from that war-torn hellscape where he was throwing rocks at ‘troopers but his hands were clean (it has been a long time since Davits’ hands were clean). In six years, Cassian will be less slight but no less brittle around the edges, his jawline will become dark with patchy stubble but his eyes - and his hands - will be no less watchful, no less nimble. He will tear at his hair and throw his broken blaster in the privacy of Draven’s quarters but out in the Command center he will be calm and quiet and unmoved, and Mothma’s mouth will turn down but all Davits will think is,  _let it be on me, let the responsibility be mine._ (After all, it’s been a long time since Davits’ hands were clean.)


	27. Hangover writing: good news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from an anon, who did not send a quote specifically but asked For Jyn and Cassian having _"a celebration of anything, but something that lets them experience euphoria and/or happiness"_.
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171745781299/shots-shots-shots-congratulations-on-the-good).

It’s such a small thing, really. Not an Alliance victory, not a planet liberated or a system won over to their side. Hells, Jyn thinks as she picks her way through the every day chaos of the main hallways in Echo Base, it’s not even really a victory for the Alliance at all, not on the grand scale of things.

And yet, when Jyn keys in the code for their door and steps into their quarters, she finds her careful mask falling from her face with startling ease, her mouth curving up and her chest expanding with something that can only be called joy.

“Cassian,” she calls, and the pile of patchwork blankets and coats and scarves on the bed shifts as he rolls over to look at her, eyes blurry but clearing rapidly. Jyn shrugs out of her coat and kicks her boots off as fast as she can, and by the time she’s ready to crawl into the little mound of warmth and welcome, he looks fully awake.

“Everything alright?” he asks softly, and his arm wraps around her waist so easy, so familiar. The warmth in her chest expands down into her belly. And Jyn, who once needed to be coaxed just to let herself relax against him, who once feared to reach out lest she push too hard, now twines her limbs as tightly around his as she can manage and positively wiggles until her body is wedged against his, pulling him over and deliberately trapping herself between his weight and the mattress. Cassian looks startled but pleased, his mouth pulling into a faint smile, his fingers fisting into her shirt and cupping the back of her head gently.

Jyn turns her face into his neck and takes a deep breath. Then, in a low voice that wobbles slightly with laughter and pride and excitement (and it says something about how comfortable and safe he has made her, how far gone she is for him these days that she does not even concern herself with it, does not attempt to hide the weakness), she tells him the news.

“Oh,” he says quietly, and she can feel him blinking rapidly against her temple. And then he takes a deep breath that she can feel all along her own body, and suddenly he is laughing, rolling until he is completely on top of her, his face pressed to her shoulder and his warmth all around her.

Jyn curves her body to match his own, puzzle pieces made to fit, broken and worn and yet still perfect for one another, and laughs with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I left the actual news very vague. Fill in your fave headcanon.


	28. Post-hangover writing: a good man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't quite get all the prompts done the day I got them, so here's my best attempt to answer them all within a reasonable time. This prompt is from an anon, who sent:
> 
> _"You are a good man with a good heart."_
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171833600189/let-me-be-another-late-congratulator-very).

“Shh, shh, hush-a-bye, my baby,” his mother crooned low under breath, and Cassian would have resented being called a baby any other time, but the noises outside were scary and Mama’s arms were safe, so he ducked his head and stayed silent. Somewhere overhead, up where the weak sunlight filtered through the papered-over windows, the door crashed open, shaking the house and making Cassian jump. 

Mama gripped him tighter and ran her hand through his hair. “Hush, my little one,” she whispered again, so close to his ear that it tickled and yet so quiet he almost couldn’t hear. Something heavy - many somethings - boots - clumped around, shaking dust down from the floorboards and into the cellar, getting in Cassian’s eyes and making his nose twitch. He wanted to sneeze. He needed to sneeze. But Mama said hush and the stomping footsteps were so, so heavy overhead, heavy enough to smash through the floor and crush Mama and Cassian,  _stomp, stomp, stomp_. So Cassian squeezes his eyes tight, tight, and squished his nose hard against Mama’s shoulder, and held his breath even though it hurt his chest and made his head light and dizzy.

The stomping moved back to the door, buzzing words in a language he only partially understood razored through the air, the door banged closed, and Mama took a deep, deep breath. “Well done,” she said, her tone bright and cheerful, as if they had been playing a game and Cassian had won. “Well done, Cassian. My son,” she kissed his cheek and did not comment on the redness of his face, the way he gulped air against her shoulder. “My good boy.”

 

* * *

 

“Come on, Dav,” Colonel Merrick’s voice was tired but friendly, even filtered through the thins walls of the medical ward to where Cassian leaned in the shadows. “You can’t be serious about the kid. He barely clears my  _shoulder._ He’s not even old enough to shave. He doesn’t belong out there in that shitstorm.”

Cassian scratched at the admittedly thin scruff on his chin and told himself not to take offense. He liked Merrick - a thoughtful, quiet man with a ready smile and an impressive mustache. Well,  _relatively_ quiet, quiet for a fighter pilot, anyway, but Cassian made generous allowances for people who pulled his backside out of firefights. The stupid, poorly planned and badly-managed mission on Virujansi might well have been Cassian’s last - an ignoble end for a teenage spy - had Merrick and his Blue squadron not dropped out of the, well, out of the blue and shot the incoming TIE fighters into so much flak. Cassian had been one of the several operatives on the ground, dragging his injured commander through the unexpected riot and to the safety of the shuttle (that never would have made it through the TIE blockade without the X-Wing intervention). 

So Cassian liked Merrick, and right now felt particularly indebted to him - which was probably why his comments sparked such a strange mix of emotions in the spy as the pilot did his best to persuade Draven to remove Cassian from field operations. Resentment (after all he’d done,  _now_ someone wanted to shield him?), understanding (Merrick was a fighter pilot, and children don’t fly X-Wings), and appreciation (someone wanted to shield him) all tangled together with duty, fear, and an exhaustion that was already beginning to settle into his bones.

“He’s been in ‘that shitstorm’ for years, Antoc,” Draven’s voice was rough and a bit slurred, the medications slowing him down but not enough to put him out. Cassian suspected that his commander was somehow cheating the medics, squirreling the drugs away when they weren’t looking and probably unplugging his IV drip, too. Perfectly reasonable, of course - to be drugged was to be vulnerable, compromised, and Draven was a high-order operative, the kind of person the Alliance could not afford to be compromised. “And he’s good at it. Your concern is misplaced.”

“I don’t doubt his skills,” Merrick shot back, then sighed. “I talked to him while you were getting your ass stitched back together.” A soft thump, an irritated grumble from Draven, and a low chuckle from Merrick. “And yeah, he’s smart. Talented. Knows his shit. But Dav,” Merrick’s voice moved a little closer to Cassian, and there was a scraping noise - he probably pulled one of the chairs from the wall closer to Draven’s medical bed. Another loud thump as he threw himself into it. “Dav, he’s a good kid. The kind of kid we’re supposed to be, fuck, I don’t know, be doing all this shit  _for._ ”

 _A good kid_  echoed in Cassian’s ears, and abruptly, he couldn’t listen anymore. He shoved himself off the wall and strode down the hall as fast as he could without running and calling attention to himself, and he did not hear Draven’s reply but he didn’t need to. Merrick didn’t know Cassian, didn’t know what he’s done, what he’s willing to do. There weren’t many who did, and it had been a long, long time since anyone called him “good.”

 

* * *

 

“I guess I was lucky,” Cassian half-joked, watching her through half-closed eyes as she worked at the bloody bandage on his side, “that you didn’t just come straight after me.”

“I did come after you,” Jyn replied distractedly, scowling at the too-small bacta patch and pausing to swipe her slick hands on her trouser leg, trying to dry her fingers for a better grip.

“Not here,” Cassian corrected her, leaning his head back against the bulkhead and feeling the gentle hum of the ship’s engines rattling through the metal, rattling through his addled, blood-deprived brain. “Eadu.”

That made Jyn’s hands still for a moment, and Cassian tapped her knee idly with his hand, playing with the torn edge around the hole there. Her knee was scraped but not bloody - well, not with her own blood - that was good. She probably fell when she threw him into the shuttle. He could fix that hole. Later. When his hands weren’t so cold. “Eadu?” Jyn asked, and her hands started moving again, pushing at his filthy shirt, fingers full of bacta and clean wipes and…whatever had been in that med kit. Had he refilled it recently? Last month, or was it two weeks ago, he remembered because he’d been looking for the -

“Cassian,” Jyn snapped, jolting him back to the present (a place he didn’t particularly want to be right now, not with a hole in his side and fear in Jyn’s eyes, he hated that look, hated being responsible for it, she deserved much better than blood and fear and bacta patches too small -) “Cassian, what about Eadu?”

“I thought you would come after me,” he told her honestly. “When you figured out that I was there to kill your father.”

Jyn pressed down on the wound, locking the bacta patch against his skin, and Cassian’s thoughts temporarily turned sharp and white and incoherent, but then her hands were gentle on his face, and he gratefully focused on that instead. “I thought about it,” she confessed, and Cassian nodded because of course. “But in the end…”

“Better to just go save him,” Cassian sighed, and distantly noted that the bacta was already working, numbing down the pain and clearing his head a little. 

“No.” She shook her head, and Cassian blinked at her in surprise. “That’s isn’t - I just - “

She subsided, frowning at her bloody hands on his face, pulling them away abruptly and making another futile attempt to clean them on her grimy clothes. Cassian’s hands were cold and fumbling, but he managed to catch her fingers and wrap them in his own. “Jyn?”

“Baze said you had the face of a friend,” Jyn blurted. “And I…got that. I mean, it should have just been nonsense to me. ‘Face of a friend,’ “ she snorted, shook her head. “But I got it. Whatever else you were doing, whatever lies you’d told me - “ she glanced up as his hands clenched reflexively, and studied his face for a moment. “It hurt the most because I understood why you were doing it,” she said flatly. “If I killed you, I wouldn’t be killing a - a bad guy,” she shrugged in frustration, struggling with the words. “I’d be killing a man doing what he thought was right, what seemed right to most people. You were  _wrong_ ,” she emphasized, glaring a little at him, then letting the expression drop. She was tired, he could tell, worn from the frantic battle they had just escaped, exhausted by the fear of losing him to his injuries. “But I understood anyway. I hated that. But I couldn’t lie to myself about it. I would have been killing a good man.”

He couldn’t help it, he jerked a little at the words and the cascade of conflicting emotions they set off:  surprise, pleasure, anger, fear, guilt. Jyn sat and watched his face quietly as he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, and then nodded as if he had spoken. “You don’t believe it,” she said quietly, “when anyone says that, do you?” 

He opened his mouth, closed it again. His brain was a mess, dizzy already from blood loss, and he could not find the words to explain to her that no - no, he was not - and he was alright with that, he’d chosen it - someday the galaxy would be a place that didn’t need people like - 

“Cassian,” Jyn said firmly, leaning forward and pressing her lips against his bloody cheek. Her hands were tight around his, and even through the copper stink of blood and the clinical citrus smell of bacta, he could smell gun oil and mint, desert sands after the rain, violence and loyalty and hope, everything he associated with Jyn. “You are a good man,” she said against his skin, her voice soft but firm, kind but uncompromising. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” she pressed her lips against him in a kiss, and then pulled away to look him right in the eye. “And neither would I.” She let the words sink in for a moment, and then she pulled her hands free and carefully wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him up clumsily to his feet and pointing him towards the ‘fresher. 

“Jyn,” Cassian tried, because he had to try, “I am a spy. A fucking  _assassin_. I’m - “

“Hey,” Jyn cut him off casually as she helped him limp into the ‘fresher and reached for the sonic’s switch, “Friendly word of warning. I don’t let people call the people I love names. The last guy who talked shit ended up on his ass with a busted nose. So just,” she wrinkled her nose and stripped her bloody gloves off, tossing them to the floor. “Just go with it, okay?”

Cassian considered that as she worked briskly to pull the torn remnants of his shirt off, and then reached for her own buttons. “Okay,” he said at last, “okay. I, ah, I will…go with it.” And because her face was still too tight and her hands too careful and professional around his side, he added, “I like my nose in one piece.”

It worked, Jyn’s face relaxed into a smirk and her hands turned less cautious and more lingering as she peeled away their clothes and pulled him into the sonic. “Good. And…I don’t lie to you, Cassian,” she added, stepping forward and slipping her arms around him as the blood and grit of the operation flaked and fell away from them both. “You are a good man. You  _are_.”

“Okay,” he closed his eyes and leaned against her, breathing deep and willing himself to stay upright, to move past the pain and dizziness. “Okay.”

He still didn’t believe her, not really - but there was something in the back of his head, something that sparked and glowed brighter with every brush of her scarred hands, every promise he made her, every heartbeat in time with his own, something that added quietly,  _yet._


	29. Post-hangover writing: dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from [@mostowa](http://mostowa.tumblr.com/), who sent:
> 
> _"If you don't feel love, dreaming is the way to go."_
> 
> The original post is [here](https://skitzofreak.tumblr.com/post/171830724154/congratulations-on-your-great-news-your-way-of).

Fifteen year old Jyn doesn’t dream, or at least, she doesn’t remember if she does. Sometimes she jolts awake and finds her hand already curled around her truncheon, or her necklace, or the fading impression of warm fingers in hers. Her mind is a jumble of fragmented thoughts and sense memories - mostly scary ones, like blood in the air, cold against her skin, or phantom pain lingering around the scars she’s been accumulating since she was a child. But occasionally, very occasionally, she wakes to the lingering sense of something soft stroking her hair, a faint press against the back of her hand, the strange floating sense of being wrapped in something strong and faithful that carries her through the turmoil of her world. 

It’s stupid, and dangerous, and it always makes her desperately angry (desperately sad), and worse, Saw always seems to know when she’s been dreaming like that. He frowns at her in his contemplative, disapproving way, and reminds her of the latest atrocity committed by their enemy, the most recent loss they have suffered at the Empire’s uncaring hand. And then he sets her to some important but grueling task, until she is worn and battered and focused once more. Jyn is - not happy, but perhaps grateful. It hurts less, that way. And sometimes, when she’s settled back in her own skin again, he will rest his great hand on her shoulder and tell her that her sacrifice matters, that she is changing the universe for the good. 

Jyn nods and cleans her blaster and tells herself that this is enough.

 

* * *

 

Fifteen year old Cassian almost laughs when the instructor starts with “welcome to Intelligence training; your life is about to change,” because in reality he’s been working for Draven since he was nine, but no one is ever going to acknowledge  _that._ However much Cassian resents being treated like a total greenhorn (he doesn’t, actually, because field operative training is five months long, and he’s non-deployable for the duration - it’s like a vacation), he does actually end up appreciating some of the tricks and tips the older, more experienced operatives pass on. 

Although he could do without the dream journal. “A spy is only as good as their observational skills,” the instructor informs them, “and their memory.” So Cassian is expected to immediately write down all his dreams the moment he wakes, in as explicit detail as he can recall. Some of the other trainees, most notably an older Delphidian with an impressive array of scars, are concerned about the security of these writings, but Cassian just gives his to Kay for encryption and safe keeping. Anyone willing to fight a KX droid and crack three layers of high-end coding just for some kid’s dream journal is too insane to be a real threat anyway.  

By the time the training is over (and Cassian is already on a shuttle headed for his ‘first’ mission before his instructor has walked all the way back to Command to update his file), Cassian’s dream journal is roughly two hundred pages long.  “I recommend you read through your dream journals before you destroy them,” the instructor says just before the class concluded, “Self-awareness is an important trait in this business.” So he opens the file in the glowing blue light of hyperspace, and notes with detached interest that the majority of them are, of course, nightmares written in extensive, meticulous detail. He skims those dispassionately, nothing new to be learned about himself there, but his attention snags on the shortest, roughest entries, barely more than a sentence or two, but all of them say roughly the same thing:

 _Someone is holding me. It is dark. There are bad things happening around me. But I am not afraid._  

Cassian deletes the journal, and spends the rest of the trip scrupulously poring over the mission briefing.

 

* * *

 

Cassian goes still, his breath catching, and Jyn snaps awake with one hand tight around his wrist and the other reaching for her blaster by the side of the bed. Before she can pull it from the holster, Cassian lets out a long breath and tightens his arms around her waist, pulling her in against his chest and burying his face in the curve of her neck. “It’s fine,” he breathes, “fine, just a dream.”

His heart is beating too fast against her back, his breathing is a little ragged, but his hands aren’t clammy and his muscles are relatively relaxed. Jyn carefully sets the blaster back and considers this confusing mix of signals. He always wakes from his nightmares shivering and cold, but when she slips her hands down and twines her fingers with both of his, he’s as warm as ever. Jyn frowns but decides to let it go, and squirms back to fit herself more neatly against him. 

Cassian’s hands flex around hers in response, and Jyn thinks -  _oh._

She clears her throat slightly, and murmurs, “Good dream?”

Cassian huffs a laugh in her ear, which changes to a low groan when she rolls her hips back. “Decent. You were there.”

A response comes to her lips immediately, but she stalls, because it’s…well, it’s not raunchy, Jyn can handle raunchy, that shit is the background static of most conversations out in the seedier cantinas and alleys where she’s lived and worked since she was sixteen. No, right now she kind of wants to be  _flirty_ , and to her mild annoyance, her cheeks flush and a thin strand of embarrassment weaves up her spine. It’s ridiculous, she’s hardly a blushing virgin, and for fuck’s sake they’ve been together for almost a full  _year_. So Jyn swallows, curves her body a little more against him, and says as confidently as she can, “Would you like it to be less decent?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, and absurdly Jyn feels her own pulse quicken in half-desire, half-nerves. And then Cassian laughs against the back of her neck. “Ma’am, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Seems I already did,” she shoots back, and rolls her hips deliberately. 

“It was a good dream,” he tells her, and slips one hand free from her grip, “but I prefer the reality.”


	30. Love, love, to ease my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was from @moonprincess92nz, who asked: "Jyn +love".

“I love you,” he slurs, hanging on her sleeve and smiling at her with galaxy’s dopiest eyes. “Darling. Daaaaaaarling, I, I,” he coughs, splattering her sleeve slightly with alcohol-saturated spit, and Jyn almost throws him into the nearest garbage bin right there but she’s better than that, she’s a professional, she’s on a very important mission and she’s under control. Give her ten minutes and she’ll be somewhere she can dump McDrunk here without risking he will get picked up by Imperial patrols and questioned (it’s not likely he will be able to describe her with any accuracy, but she’s not going to take even the small risks, not when there’s more than her own life on the line). Jyn struggles to keep her face under control, to keep the disgust from showing clearly enough that it might reach even McDrunk.

“Darling, I loooooove you,” the mark croons against her shoulder, and for a moment she almost reconsiders that risk thing. 

“Love you sooo much, darling, so pretty, so, so, good. Oh, darlin’ darlin’ daaarlin’, I’m so happy we met, you know,” And then he reaches up to pet her head, and Jyn grits her teeth and braces for it. She can shower the grease and the booze and the vomit out of her hair later -

The touch never comes, which seems to surprise the mark just as much as it does Jyn. They both turn to look behind them, and then Jyn has to struggle to control her face for a much different reason. Cassian is holding the mark’s wrist over her head like he’s stopping a hammer blow, a dark scowl on his face, and his other hand holding a…oh _seriously?_ A wicked, ten-centimeter long jagged-edged vibroblade that wouldn’t be out of place in a gritty action holo about gangsters who butchered their victims or something. Jyn rolls her eyes, but the mark buys the whole “dark stranger with a scary knife and a scarier face,” and he practically pisses himself as he clings to Jyn’s arm and shakes. 

“Who the fuck?” he babbles, wrenching pitifully at his trapped wrist. “Who the fuck? Who the - wha’d’you want, man? Lemme go, let - who the fuck?” His wild eyes swing back to Jyn at the last question, and she adopts a worried expression and stage-whispers,  _“boyfriend_.” The mark’s pale face turns positively green around the edges, and he all but lunges away from her, which leaves him dangling a little from Cassian’s grip like a hooked fish.

“I didn’t know, man, didn’t know! Swear on my mum’s grave, I mean, when she’s dead and all, I didn’t know, she was just, she um, she came on to me, man!” and he jabs a wavering finger at Jyn, who narrows her eyes and reminds herself, once again, that killing him might draw ‘troopers to the area and also signal a loss of control on her part. Maybe a good sucker punch to the mouth, though, that might be okay.

“Get,” Cassian says in a low, terrible voice that makes Jyn shiver slightly in her heavy jacket, and turns the mark positively incoherent with babbling terror, “ _out._ ”

He drops the mark, who abandons dignity to scrabble on all fours towards the alley entrance and then shoots to his feet and bolts off into the night like his ass is on fire. Jyn listens to his footsteps fade, and then turns to glower at her partner. She finds him leaning casually against the wall, the ridiculous knife already out of sight and a mild expression on his face as he looks up at the distant lights of the upper city. “You finished early,” he says peacefully, as if they have just run into each other by coincidence while out for a pleasant stroll. “Well done.”

“I had that under control.”

Cassian nods without even glancing at her. “Yes.”

“I was handling him.”

“I know.”

“You  _interfered_ ,” Jyn starts, but before she can really get going, Cassian shoves himself off the wall and strides into her space, traces one hand down her cheek and around the back of her neck, which short-circuits her long enough that when he leans down and pauses, his lips a breath away from hers, she sighs and tilts her face up to kiss him instead of giving him the tongue lashing he probably deserves. Well, the mark will definitely remember that there were two people instead of just one, and he might even be able to give reasonably accurate descriptions - but on the other hand, residual terror will just as likely keep his big mouth shut, and they’ll be off this rock in a couple hours anyway.

And in the meantime, Cassian’s mouth is soft against hers, his hands warm against her neck and cheek where he holds her close, and he smells like leather and the smoke of the bar where he’d been watching her work over their mark for the last three hours, apparently getting progressively more irritated as the idiot pawed and groped and slobbered at her. He kisses her for several long, sweet minutes, which tells her that he was really not happy, but when he finally lets her breathe again, the calm on his face looks genuine instead of fake like it had a moment ago. She’s feeling a bit more chipper herself, come to think of it.

Still, Jyn’s not about to let him off that easy. “Nice knife,” she says dryly, falling into step beside him as they head back to the space port.

“Found it on a guy in the bar,” he says lightly. “Thought it could be useful.”

“For what, carving a skal-pig?”

Cassian shrugs, his hands deep in his pockets as they hit the main road, pushing their way through the thin nighttime crowds. “If necessary.”

She blinks at that, because he says it so seriously, then she shakes her head. “And the scary voice?”

“What scary voice?” He gives her a look so innocent it could burnish rust off metal, and Jyn jabs her finger hard into his ribs in response. “Hey!”

“If there’s any terrorizing of marks to be done,” Jyn tells him firmly, “I get to be part of it.”

Cassian smiles. “I apologize for leaving you out of the fun.”

“Good,” Jyn scowls once more, just to bring the point home, and then steps close and slips her hand into his pocket, curling her cold fingers around his much warmer hand. “And thanks.” She glances up in time to catch him wiping the startled smile off his face and settling back to his neutral mask, “for the good timing.”

“Anytime,” he says quietly, and grips her hand tight in his. “Anytime.”


	31. god is in the rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from @ruby-red-inky-blue (aka [guineapiggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie)): "maybe a weather theme could be fun? idk rain or storms or…"

Jyn is four and her hands are tight around her ears, her face pressed into Papa’s shoulder as the windows rattle and blur, making the world outside look terrifying, like it’s all melting. “It’s alright, Stardust,” Papa soothes, patting a hand on her head, tweaking her braid a little, the way that always makes her laugh. She doesn’t laugh now, but it helps, a little. “It’s the scheduled rainstorm. See, this part of Coruscant is a special place. Up in this sector, the people use aerial seeding and differential pressure sourcing to-”

“They have rainstorms every two weeks,” Mama cuts in. “It can’t hurt you, and if you’re inside it won’t touch you at all. We’ll get used to it, in time.”

Jyn chews on her lip and peers over Papa’s shoulder at the blurry, runny, noisy world, and thinks she’ll never be used to it. But Mama said she would, and Jyn tries to do what Mama says. So she nods and hugs Papa tight, and waits for the rain to stop.

 

* * *

 

Jyn is eight and her hands are covered in mud, her face even worse, so she stands in the middle of the field and tips her head back to the pouring sky and stretches her grubby fingers up as if she means to grab the heavy clouds and wring them out on herself. If she’s really lucky, she can wash the worst of it off before Mama sees, and then maybe any lingering dirt can be blamed on the storm. Otherwise, Mama’s going to take one look at her and know Jyn was playing in the thick black mud in the foothills when she knew well and good that she was forbidden from going back there unless she was with Mama or Papa. They took her back there all the time, when they wanted to “practice the plan,” a phrase that meant “make Jyn run through the slippery grass to crawl into a dark little cave and be really quiet for awhile.” It wasn’t Jyn’s favorite game, but at least it let her go somewhere besides the fields and the little house and the shed where Essie charged when he wasn’t working on the water purifiers. It let Jyn go somewhere  _different_.

The rain today is heavier than usual, and Jyn’s hands wash clean faster than she expects. Still, she stands with her hands stretched up, watching the rivulets trickling down her thin wrists, mimicking the blue trails of her veins just under the skin. Papa told her that all things were made of stardust, cosmic miracles spun from the dust and memory of long dead stars. That’s why he calls her that, Stardust, because she was made up of dead stars - it sounded nicer when he said it, when he tapped her wrists and said there was stardust in her veins. 

Jyn watches the rain splash and drip and wash her hands clean, because the rain is warm and friendly - until something big and dark passes overhead, a shuttle, heading for her homestead - and suddenly, it isn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

Jyn is fifteen and her hands are bloody as she swipes the grime from her face, but at least she doesn’t have to worry about leaving a blood trail because the rain is hammering down now, muddying the dirt beneath her boots and washing away her scent so the hounds can’t follow. Not that the Imperials use hounds often on this planet, but it’s been known to happen. She shouldn’t rely entirely on the rain, but there aren’t a lot of choices right now. She doesn’t even have a medkit anymore, not after the explosion, most of her gear lost in this truly tits-up excuse for an operation. Saw would kill the lieutenant who was running this cell, if the fool weren’t already dead.

Jyn clutches her jacket tight against her side to stymie the blood flow as best she can, and runs as fast as she can manage through the rough purple and blue foliage of this world’s weird forest. The trees are more like giant cabbages, ugly ones, Jyn thinks a little sourly as she darts through the wide leaves and muddy trails. She’s never been in a forest like this, hopes never to be in one again. The plants aren’t just ugly, the rain makes them give off some kind of enzyme, so they  _stink_ , too. Behind her, lights move in neat, precise patterns over the ground, an Imperial search party trailing her through the wilderness. Jyn grips her jacket a little tighter with one hand, grips her blaster tighter still in the other.

Her foot slips a little in the mud, but she corrects quickly enough. Mud, at least, is familiar. She knows how to run in mud. She’s had lots of practice. Too much practice. Even after Lah’mu, she’s spent so much time in mud and rain and –

And her thoughts are starting to spiral out of control, she recognizes the symptoms and pulls herself together. Run now, she snarls at herself, cry later. She needs to keep her wits about her, because Saw doesn’t know this mission went sideways yet, and probably won’t be able to save her before the Imps catch up unless she gets her head on straight and pulls herself through.

So Jyn grips her jacket, her blaster, and her focus, and does just that.

 

* * *

 

 

Jyn is twenty two and her hands are bloody, but it’s not her blood this time, and not the blood of her enemy (she thought he was, oh, for the longest time he had been her worst enemy, the man who abandoned her, the monster she had to pretend to forget the way she thought he had forgotten her, but she was wrong, she was wrong, and her father loved her yet). The rain on Eadu is harsher than most, a metallic tang to it that makes it taste faintly of steel in her mouth, like she’s swallowing razor blades. She gulps at the wet air as Cassian drags her through both the fire and the water, his heavy gloves sodden and cold but clamped like iron on her hand. A flash of lightning turns the rocks jagged around them and Cassian’s gloves come into full focus for a half second (is it lightning or is it a bomb exploding too close? It the light Imperial or rebel or just nature trying to murder Jyn Erso, trying to leave her sodden body on these grim rocks next to her father, her father, oh fire and fuck, her  _Papa_  – )

There’s blood on Cassian's gloves, too; she can see it in that brief flash of light, blood stains leaking, rusty and terrible against the off-white of the material around his hands, and is it his blood, is he wounded?

No, no it’s her  _father’s_  blood, transferred over from her hands to his and Jyn’s muscles start to lock, her heart a thunder in her ears to rival even the crash of the storm, the booming of the Alliance bombs dropping on their heads.  _My Stardust_ , Papa gasps in her head,  _I have so much to tell you_ but he didn’t, he just died, he is dead, and she is finally, at long last, truly alone in the universe. Mama, Saw, Papa, every Partisan she had ever fought beside,  _shit_ , even her old droid from Lah’mu, everyone who ever gave half a damn about Jyn Erso _, dead_.

She’s felt alone for years, but now, she really, honestly is.

The rebel spy drags her into an Imperial shuttle that she vaguely registers as stolen, and the rest of the odd crew, the strangers who have somehow latched on to her – no, to  _him_ , him and his damn  _mission_ , him and his precious  _fucking Alliance_  – they all stumble in after her, the hatch closes and they are finally clear of the rain. The ship lurches and races away but Jyn doesn’t care anymore, she just stands there with her back against the wall and blinks until the rain clears from her eyes and all that’s left in her vision is the rage - rage, and Captain Cassian fucking Andor.

 

* * *

 

 

Jyn is twenty-two and her arms are tight around her ribs, her face set stubbornly into a wary, unreadable mask as she watches the rain pour down outside the massive hangar doors of Yavin IV. It’s so heavy that she can barely see through the wall of water cascading over the opening, turning the world beyond the hangar murky and indistinct.

“Cloudburst,” Cassian says quietly from her side, his hands clasped tight on the handle of his cane. “You get used to it.” He glances over his shoulder with a grimace at the controlled chaos of the hangar, where the evacuation is in full swing. “Or you would have,” he corrects himself, and seems about to say something else, but stops himself with a shake of his head. She almost wants to laugh at his expression, mild disgust with himself for forgetting, as if it isn’t understandable, as if he hasn’t just suffered an extreme near-death injury and blood loss and spent three days solid in a bacta tank after five surgeries and at least one brief moment when his heart stopped and Jyn thought –

Jyn shakes her head, too, but for a different reason. “Heard we can’t leave,” she says after a while, because the silence is comfortable, with him at least it almost always is, but right now she’s restless and uncertain, and she wants…something. Words? Maybe words will help. Not usually, but then, this has been…an unusual week. Month. So Jyn jerks her head towards the loading shuttles and grips her shirt, hugging herself tightly. “Until the rain lets up. In atmo navigation or something.”

“More likely the rain is just a threat to the older model shuttles’ engines,” Cassian scowls at some of the (admittedly ancient) ships in the Alliance’s makeshift fleet – a fleet that was apparently much more impressive, before the battle over Scarif. Before the battle over Yavin. Before the Death – but she doesn’t want to think about it. “We’ll still leave on first wave, when the order comes down,” Cassian cuts into her spiraling thoughts. “We’re slated for the same ship,” he adds, his voice turning careful, and Jyn turns to look at him. “Although I have been given authorization, by Mon Mothma, personally,” he shifts his weight, adjusts his grip on his cane. “To switch you to any other ship on the roster, if that is your preference. Some of them aren’t going to Home One. Some of them are going,” he glances at her sidelong, through his lashes, then back out at the rain. “Elsewhere,” he finishes lamely.

“Drop off points,” she fills in the blanks. “Somewhere I can get off and…go.”

He nods, and they lapse into silence, listening to the shouts and bangs of the hangar, muffled only by the steady roar of the rain.

“I think,” she says slowly, softly, aware that he’s turning to look at her, but keeping her eyes on the blurry world beyond the door. “I could get used to it. If there’s…time.”

“If you stay,” Cassian says just as slow, just as soft, “there will be. Some, at least. If you wanted.”

Jyn nods, and then cautiously, not sure entirely what she’s doing but determined to do it anyway, to at least try (she can still save herself, if she has to, but it’s nice to know that someone else will, too), Jyn shifts her weight until she’s leaning a little towards him. And then, carefully, lightly, she tilts her head and rests her temple against his shoulder.

Cassian lets out a long, quiet sigh, and cautiously leans just a little bit back.

They stay like that a long time, waiting for the rain to stop.


	32. baby soft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is from @sleepykalena, who said: "Jyn + hair" (and yes, I totally skirted the prompt, but I'll come back to it in something else)

When Jyn Erso was born, squalling with rage at the indignity of life, the midwife cleaned her quickly to minimize her exposure to the harsh cold winds of the Vallt prison camp. Jyn had screamed through the whole process, wailed as she was wrapped up tight against the chill in torn shirts donated by a few kind-hearted fellow prisoners, bellowed until her little face turned bright red as the midwife held her out to the courier. “Well,” the courier said as he snapped a quick holo as proof of life, “at least she’s healthy, ay?”

“Aye, good lungs,” the midwife agreed with a nervous grin, because the guards at the gate were staunchly ignoring the little cries but one never knew what would set those Separatist bastards off. “Got all her fingers and toes.”

“And hair,” the courier glanced over his shoulder at the guards, and then abruptly reached out and stroked a quick, furtive hand over the baby’s dark, fuzzy little head. The midwife watched him closely, because some of those who were allowed to pass between the camp and the factory up the hill were as two-faced as that job implied, but she also allowed it, because on Vallt, touching a newborn was not just good luck for the adult, but it was a tiny promise to the baby -  _I shall not harm you. May the world follow my example._

Then the courier was off, through the gate and up to the factory, where presumably the babe’s other parent was laboring under the Separatists’ beady little eyes, may the Force curse them all with anal worms. The midwife spit twice and turned to settle the squalling little babe against her exhausted mother’s chest. “It’s done, then,” she said as quietly as she could and still be heard over the high, furious screams.

“He’ll get it,” the mother asked, her face still pale and her voice faint but her arms coming up to wrap around the babe as tight and strong as any new mother. “Galen. He’ll get the holo, he’ll know?”

“You paid the price,” the midwife reassured her, which was as close to saying  _yes_  as she was willing to do. After all, one never knew with the couriers, or the Separatists for that matter. “He’ll know his daughter.”

“She really does,” the mother said quietly, looking down at the baby, who was still crying, but fitfully now, as if she wasn’t sure her complaint was worth the effort but she also wasn’t willing to let it go so easily, either. “Her hair,” the mother clarified, or attempted to. The drugs that one of the other prisoners had managed to smuggle in for her yesterday were finally taking effect, pulling her under and giving her body a chance to recover from a birth done in a thin, open-sided tent in the middle of Vallt’s brutal winter. “She gets that from my side of the family,” the mother whispered as the midwife tucked more ragged shirts around them and sat close, lending her body warmth as she could. “We were all born…hair…she’s like me, I was…”

“Aye,” the midwife soothed. “She’s just like you, love, bless her little head. Bright eyes. Dark hair. Strong, particularly in the lungs.” she glanced at the babe, then at the guards. “Strong,” she muttered again, and then sighed. “She’ll have to be.”


	33. slow me down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @incognitajones, who asked: “Jyn + calm OR dreams“

 

Jyn adjusts to the Alliance life easily enough. In a way, it’s like slipping on an old coat. After all, she was a Partisan for most of her formative years, she grew up learning to put together an improvised explosive, memorizing the soft spots on a hundred different species (but with emphasis on Human males, even those in armor), and knew how to go without enough food or enough ammo or really, enough  _anything_. But for all it’s faults and deficiencies, the Alliance is better funded and better run than Saw’s Partisans, even back in their heyday when they had active cells all across the galaxy. So the coat thing works, except instead of finding the coat shabby and too small when she put it on, someone’s gone back and patched all the holes and adjusted the seams to fit her. 

Oh, hells. She’s thinking in coat metaphors. She can never tell Cassian. 

Or Bodhi. Baze, maybe, but  _definitely_  not Chirrut. Kay would just tell Cassian she had lost her mind. But it does work, however ridiculous. Jyn slips into life as a rebel soldier like she never left, except now somehow everything is better. She spends her working hours on the base planning raids and thefts and sabotage, keeping her skills sharp in the training rooms, helping research targets and prep missions. But unlike the Partisans, where there were only three acceptable ways to spend her time (fight, prep to fight, sleep), now she can…stop. She can walk out of the briefing space or the commhub or the training room and sit quietly next to Bodhi as he tinkers with whatever gadget has caught his eye today, listening to his scattered rambling without having to chime in if she didn’t want to. She can stretch with Chirrut (grudgingly, because that man is stupid flexible and she never walks away from a ‘meditation’ without feeling like her kneecaps are about to fall off and her spine has been realigned with distant stars). She can flop down next to Baze and he will usually hand her a gun to clean without comment. She can even wander into Kay’s droid bay and spend a fun hour passive-aggressively critiquing every move the droid mechs make (knowing the stiff-necked arseholes won’t do a thing about it, because she’s a Human and Kay is two meters tall).

Or.

Or she can maybe stay in the briefing space, or commhub or the training room, and lean against the wall or the console and level a steady gaze at Cassian until he sighs (or laughs, sometimes he laughs a little and those are her favorite times) and pushes himself up. “You’re right,” he’ll say quietly. “We could use the break.” And then he’ll lead her to the mess or the hangar or maybe to wherever one of their other friends may be. Lately, though, he’s looked so tired, still recovering from his injuries, still working his way back into Draven’s good graces (because whatever accolades and awards Mothma rains down on him, Draven still hasn’t pulled the stick from his arse about Cassian’s disobedience). Sometimes when they leave the training rooms with all the therapy bands and light weights racked neatly behind them, Cassian will stop and lean against the wall and close his eyes for a long minute. Today is one of those times, and as he leans, Jyn can see new lines around his eyes that weren’t there before, can see the exhaustion written in his shoulders and spine. It’s better than the pain that was there before the therapy session, but still, he needs rest more than he needs to wander around base looking for some way to distract himself.

So Jyn, who is still reveling in the luxury of having  _time_ , decides that maybe they can use a few free hours for something even quieter than usual. She tugs on his arm lightly, and smiles a little when he straightens from the wall and follows without hesitation. His steps falter for a moment when she leads him to his quarters, because usually this means she thinks he should go to bed, usually this is where she leaves him. “It’s fine,” he says carefully, then adopts a slightly forced joking tone. “I’m not going to sleep anyway. Unless you’re just, ah, looking to get rid of me.”

Jyn shrugs, and slices through his lock in a couple of seconds because the Alliance is using pathetically old and cheap doorlocks. “I can just give you the code,” Cassian grumbles, and then falls silent as Jyn marches inside. Her chest feels a little tight and her throat is dry, but…well…if she’s wrong about this, wrong about all of it, then she might as well find out now rather than later, when she’s more…  _invested_. So she walks in and stands next to his bed and tilts her head, waiting.

Cassian follows her in slowly, pausing only to slap the door switch closed and then tinker with it for a moment - an override code, hah, she knew he must have programmed one in. No one is going to slice in the way she just did again. Good. She nods approvingly, and he gives her an ironic smile. The expression fades though, into something a little uncertain. He stands by the door, and she stands by the bunk, and for an awkward moment, he feels a parsec away instead of just out of arm’s reach. But his back hurts and he’s tired, and Jyn wants to know if she’s wrong as soon as possible, so she takes a slow breath and asks.

“Can I stay?”

Cassian’s mouth drops open for a second, but he is a professional, so he recovers quickly. A little too quickly - “Of course,” he says in a rush, and Jyn decides to push it, just a little, just to be sure. She sits on the bunk, pulls her boots off, and shrugs out of her overshirt. This leaves her still fully dressed in a perfectly respectable long sleeved shirt and trousers and socks, but Cassian freezes like she’s just done a strip tease and she catches him running his fingers through his hair and then yanking his hand down, as if he realizes a second too late that he's giving away a nervous tic. 

Moment of truth. Jyn tilts her chin. “Coming?”

Cassian stares at her for a breath, two breaths, and then he walks across the short distance and sits next to her. Jyn stays still and watches him strip off his own boots, which he sets neatly to the side. He shoots her a sidelong glance and then snags her casually discarded boots, too, lining them up next to his. Jyn rolls her eyes, and his mouth twitches into a small smile. His jacket comes off next, slowly because his shoulders are stiff. Jyn grips her hands on her knees and refuses to reach out and help, because he hates showing these kinds of weaknesses just as much as she does. He wrestles his way out eventually, and Jyn snatches the jacket from his hand before he can get up to hang it by the door. She tosses it on the nearby chair, on top of her discarded overshirt, and when he raises an admonishing eyebrow at her, she mimics his little smile. 

And then it’s a careful, cautious shuffle to lay down in the bed, Cassian watching her from the corner of his eye and Jyn pretending not to look at him at all as she flops against the wall on her side and crooks an arm under her head. Cassian lays on his back and folds his hands across his stomach, and for a moment they both lay as still as statues, both avoiding looking at one another, both breathing in measured, steady rhythm.

Cassian sighs, and without looking at her, lifts one arm up and lays it in the narrow bit of bed they are keeping between them. Jyn bites her lip, amused at the both of them, but a little giddy too, and only a little scared. Without comment, she reaches over and slips her hand into his, tangling her fingers with his. The tense lines of his body relax, and Jyn lets herself do the same. His weight on the mattress rolls her a little toward him, now that she’s not actively resisting it, and her knees press against his thigh, her forehead brushes his shoulder. It’s still not entirely comfortable, but his hand is warm in hers and however uncertain, she feels welcome here. 

Impulsively, Jyn bends her head and presses a brief kiss to Cassian’s knuckles, listening to him inhale sharply, and then she shimmies a little closer, just enough to feel comfortable, enough that he can feel her weight against his arm and his hip and maybe his side, just a little, just enough. 

She doesn’t think either of them sleep, not really, but for a couple of hours, they lie together in the stillness, warm and safe and not alone, and it’s…comfortable. An old coat, tucked around her shoulders. A meal she doesn’t have to fight for. A home. 


	34. hit like a girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @crazy-fruit, who said: "Either Jyn slicing or getting her truncheon(s) would be cool!"

 

_The youngling hits like a Human_ , Edrio growled through his breather mask, and Jyn bristled because she didn’t speak Tognathi but she could understand contempt when she heard it.

And she had only been here a year but she knew already what the expected reaction should be for disrespect.  _You must show them only strength_ , Saw had told her in those first days, when she cried all the time for her Mama and her Papa until Saw told her she could not go out and eat with the others lest they see her weakness. Lest they see a coward they could not trust on the battlefield. And when one of the soldiers had knocked her on her butt the first time her growling belly had driven her to dry her eyes and shuffle tentatively into the mess looking for food, Jyn had learned quickly that the only way to show strength was to shove back when she was shoved. That soldier had earned a bruised ankle from her kick and a bloody wrist where she bit him, and though he’s nearly thrown her across the room (Magva had stopped him, laughing about the ‘little feral kitten’), Jyn had earned a grudging scrap of respect. Enough to make sure she ate enough to fill her belly, that night.

So now, a year later, when stupid Codo had called her  _sweetheart_ with that sneer in his voice, Jyn had launched herself without hesitation at his scrawny chest. The boy was older and bigger than her (everyone was), but not by much, and Jyn had spent her last year learning how to hit the soft spots. Knee to the solar plexus, fingernails dug hard into the inner elbows, teeth sunk into the meaty part of his shoulder (if she wanted him dead, go for the throat, that was the rule, but Saw wouldn’t like her killing his newest recruit, not unless he earned it). This time it was Maia who dragged her off, Maia who stopped it from going any higher (in the corner, Magva laughed again, but already she was passing her days of stopping a fight when she saw it, already the bitterness of her laugh was gaining a jagged edge that made Jyn’s spine stiffen).

This time, it was Edrio and his egg-brother, Benthic, who stepped between Jyn and her opponent.  _They both do_ , Benthic agreed with his brother, jerking his head at first Codo and then Jyn.  _The difference is that she knows where to land the blows._

_Tiny fists,_ Edrio sneered.  _Tiny blows_.

“Leave it,” Maia said into Jyn’s ear. “Leave it,” she snapped at Codo when the boy started to lunge forward. But Jyn lunged harder, startling him, and the brat went dancing back with his eyes wide.  Maia’s hands clamped down on Jyn’s arms, the older girl using all her superior height and weight to bear down and pull Jyn back.

_That’s right_ , Jyn thought, her lip curled to show her teeth and her eyes wide and unblinking,  _back off, sweetheart._

“She needs a real weapon,” Magva cackled from her corner. “She could do some real damage then. Brass knuckles, or a truncheon. Get one of those, kit, and no one will call you sweetheart anytime soon.”

Jyn didn’t react, not until Codo had sulked off with Benthic close behind, the Tograth cheerfully grating out a list of laborious tasks that needed doing around the base, and Edrio went back to cleaning his gun and Maia sighed and let Jyn’s arms loose. “Just don’t go and,” she started, looked at Jyn’s face, and gave it up. “Whatever,” she mumbled, and stalked off, skirting Magva as widely as she could without being too obvious about it.

When there was no more noise but Edrio’s rhythmic cloth rubbing against the metal of his blaster, Jyn turned from staring after Codo to look at the older woman. “Trunch-yun,” she repeated slowly.

Magva raised an eyebrow, though it was hard to tell under all that black, smudged makeup. “Truncheon,” she repeated, and then her face broke into a smile. It wasn’t even her mean smile, or the one that meant there would be so much blood later that Saw would order her to hose herself off. It was…it was a nice smile, Jyn decided. Kind of like it was suddenly Magva’s Life day and she was excited. “Come on, kitten, come on. We’ll fix that hole in your knowledge right now.”

She seemed so happy about it, and was off down the corridor so fast, that Jyn decided not to argue with the “kitten” nickname. At least, not this time. Edrio barely glanced up as they both passed anyway, so no one was around to witness the disrespect. No one who cared, at least. So Jyn followed Magva through the base until they reached the woman’s bunk, and however excited and happy Magva suddenly seemed, Jyn knew better than to step foot in that claustrophobic little space. She’d seen Magva setting booby traps for Imps – and worse, she’d seen what happened when those traps went off. No, she was going to stand right here in the corridor and wait to see what the woman came out with.

What Magva came out with, it turned out, was a long black collapsible stick that looked like it was made from some lightweight metal, with a little handle about two-thirds of the way down the shaft. “Truncheon,” Magva tossed the stick to Jyn, who caught it and clumsily tried to fit her hand around the handle. “Like this,” Magva grabbed her fingers and forced her hand into an uncomfortable grip. Jyn almost resisted, almost yanked her hand away, but Magva’s grip was strong and anyway…she wanted to know.

The stick felt weird in her hand, unbalanced and awkward. But Magva stepped back and mimed a swiping motion, and when Jyn clumsily copied it, she felt the weight tug her hand into a smooth arc. She imagined what that might feel like, cracking into the gut or the skull of an enemy, and suddenly her small hand felt heavy without being slow, powerful without being bulky.

“Good shit, kitten,” Magva laughed, watching her take another swipe, then another, the truncheon whistling through the air faster and faster as she gained a little confidence.

Jyn swung the truncheon one more time, and then glanced up at the other. “What d’you want for it?” she asked a little rudely, because she didn’t have anything she could trade Magva for something like this, but she wanted it. She was so, so tired of people calling her small, or tiny, or delicate. She was so tired of feeling so empty handed in a world full of heavily armed soldiers.

Magva laughed, and it was the bitter laugh, the jagged laugh, but there was still just a little of the delight, too, lingering behind the pain. “What I want, little killer kitten,” she grinned at Jyn, her teeth gleaming yellow among the smudge black warpaint, “is to point you at the Imps and see you do some fucking  _damage_.”

More laughter, louder this time. Jyn didn’t get the joke, but as she swung the truncheon and heard it sing through the air, she thought – yeah.

Point her at some Imperials, and she could maybe do some damage.


	35. choices, changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @melanoradrood, who said: "Jyn + Things she isn't used to having now that she lives on base. Ideas : Regular showering, Regular Food, Not HAVING to wear multiple weapons ( she still does but people are surprised by it ), Having more than one set of clothing, Having a Warm Bed, and the thing that she IS used to - Feeling out of place, but she thinks that won't last for much longer!"

Jyn walks out of Yavin IV’s medical ward and into the sudden realization that she has nowhere to go. Her leg is – well, it’s not fine, she’s not stupid enough to pretend that a fracture is  _fine_ , especially not with her post-Wobani health, so she’ll have to keep her weight off it for awhile. But she can walk slowly, and she’s got some painkillers that seem like the real deal and not knock off drugs cut with chalk dust or bird droppings, the way they often are in the cheap pharmacies she rarely can afford to visit. So that’s something.

No, the problem isn’t that she can’t get anywhere, the problem is that there’s nowhere to go. She’s always had some place to be, some agenda to keep – with Saw, it was battles and supplies and keeping her skills sharp. On her own, it was more basic, find shelter, find food, find clothes, steal what she needed and don’t let any other fucker steal from her in turn. Here…she’s not hungry, not with bland but sustaining medical ward food in her gut, and she’s got decent (if second-hand) clothes from the quartermaster, and she’s not officially a member of the Alliance so she has no orders and no superior officer to report to.  So Jyn Erso finds herself standing idle in a semi-busy hallway in an old crumbling temple with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Considering that she just spent several months in an Imperial prison being told exactly where to go and what to do every second of every day (and that included when to sleep, when to wake up, when to eat, when to piss, which seat to take on the transports to and from the mines, which side of the hall she was allowed to walk on when they moved her from cell to workplace to galley to ‘fresher and back to the cell…

And then she’d been assigned to Cassian, and no, he hadn’t told her where to sit or when she could sleep, but to her disgust, Jyn had found herself simply mimicking him, only sleeping when he did on the U Wing on the way to Jedha, only eating when he handed her something from the rationed food supply. She’d synched herself to his clock, because it seemed the safest thing to do.  Besides, she had bigger things to worry about as they careened around the galaxy, trying to kill the monster her father had helped to birth.

They had done it – too late for Alderaan, for Jedha, for the hundreds of rebels now so much space dust over Scarif or Yavin – but it was done. The Death Star was gone and Jyn was free. Her family was dead, her name was her own, and she was no one to the Empire but another rebel, nothing to the rebellion but a limping civilian - for now, for now, maybe later it would change, but for  _now -_ she was free.

Free.

When was the last time she was really free? Even before Wobani, she’d been chained to her need to survive, her need to keep running from the man in white, her need to shut out the ghosts in her head.  And before that, with Saw, she’d lived and breathed by the Partisans’ objectives.

She can walk down this hallway in either direction, Jyn realizes, walk right out into the jungle or maybe to the mess hall, or to the quartermasters’ shop or the droid bays or, or,  _anywhere._  She can go pick a fight in the training rooms, or maybe try to scrounge some extra gear. She can climb to the top of the pyramid (slowly, minding her leg), or go find a private shower (there had to be one somewhere on this base, and she’s good at locks). She can stand here in this hallway for another hour, doing nothing, and no one will probably glance at her twice as they pass. No one has yet. It’s a terrifying feeling, like she’s suddenly turned weightless and untethered, something expanding in her chest too large for her body to contain and threatening to burst or carry her away. It’s terrifying, and a little thrilling, and Jyn has to lean back against the wall and press her hands flat against it for balance.

No one is going to tell her what to do, or punish her for doing it too slow or too sloppy or – she can act without life or death consequences because no one will care – she can – it’s just that –

She can do anything, because she has nothing. She can eat, or use the ‘fresher, or run in circles, and no one will stop her. She can lie on the floor somewhere and stare at the ceiling, and no one will try to rob her, or capture her as a slave, or ask to see her scandocs under threat of imprisonment. She has no schedule. She has no destination. She has no goal, not even basic survival because no one is trying to kill her, not here. Not right now. Later, who knew, but right now, she is no one and nothing to anyone on this base.

Except. Except maybe…

Jyn swallows, shifts a little more of her weight off her bad leg, and glances back over her shoulder to the medward behind her. For some stupid, inexplicable reason, her heartrate suddenly spikes and her palms feel clammy. She wants to blame the meds, but even though the Alliance seems strapped for resources, they’re way too legitimate to be passing out scrapes or fakes in place of real pills. She’s probably not hallucinating off poisoned drugs.  She’s just…she wants to…

Well, why not?

She has nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. Jyn pushes herself off the wall and slips back into the medward, making her way through the various medical beds and bustling nurses, dodging through hanging curtains and beeping droids until at last she comes to a familiar curtain. The medwards in the Alliance are mostly made up of donated or stolen equipment, so these curtains are more like house curtains, patterned with colorful triangles and only just barely reaching the floor. Jyn slips through them and pauses, because maybe there are some things she can’t do without consequences. Maybe she isn’t free to do  _this_.

And then Cassian opens his eyes and gives her a small, tired half smile, the monitor by his left shoulder beeping softly in time to his heartbeat, and the knot in her stomach eases, the flutter in her chest slows and steadies. Cassian tilts his head towards the chair she dragged to his bedside a few days ago, and Jyn settles herself silently.

“Heard,” Cassian rasps, has to pause to lick his dry lips and smiles again at her in quiet gratitude when she offers him a sip from his canteen (she keeps it full of clean water for him, because it’s less humiliating for him to drink from the canteen than those tube things they keep trying to force on him). “Heard you were free,” he manages, flicking a finger that vaguely takes in the medward around them.

Jyn fusses with the curtain near her, drawing it a little tighter closed to shut out the world beyond this small, quiet space. She shrugs, because sure, she’s free. For whatever that’s worth.

“So what’re you,” he stops to draw in a long breath, already worn out from this little interaction, fighting the drugs they’ve filled him with because he’s stubborn and paranoid and afraid to be idle. Afraid to have nothing to do. Jyn watches his face and knows exactly how he feels. “What are you going to do?”

The answer, when she goes looking for it, comes so easily that Jyn almost laughs. “For now,” she shifts to get more comfortable in the chair, curling her legs up and leaning on the arm closest to him. “This.”

With obvious effort, Cassian slides his hand to the edge of his mattress, his palm up. Jyn reaches out, and takes it, because she wants to.

Because she  _can._


	36. back here again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't so much a prompt as an "inspired by" piece, based on this image from @crazy-fruit/Ivaylo:
> 
>  

She found herself in the hangar.  _The_ hangar, hah, as if it was the only one in all the rebellion, the only one in all the galaxy. As if there weren’t three more giant pyramids in her line of sight, all with X Wings and A Wings and the shabby, hodge podge shuttles and ships that were still left in the Alliance Fleet after the battle over Scarif, after the battle over Yavin. After the Death Star. 

_Shit,_ “after the Death Star.” 

The weight of those words pressed down on Jyn’s shoulders, and if she had been too busy healing in the medwards to really grasp the magnitude of them before, she could hardly avoid it now. The galaxy was in turmoil, after the Death Star. Planets across the many systems were screaming, pointing fingers, demanding answers, scared by the destruction of an entire planet, by the churning economic impact and the reshaping of the political landscape. Coruscant was rioting, after the Death Star. 

In the hangar now, Jyn watched X Wings flying in formations with obvious gaps in the pattern, holes where whole ships should have been, bags of dead pilots’ gear left in piles on the hangar floor with names written on them and large red X’s painted across the tops. The Alliance was staggering, after the Death Star. More than half their ships lost, more than half their troops dead, fleeing into the blackness of space looking for a new base to hide, a place to recover and lick their wounds and adjust to a galaxy now openly at war. A galaxy still reeling, after the Death Star.

Jyn could relate.

She folded her arms tight around her waist, hugging herself as technicians and hangar crew and what few pilots were left moved around her, running the evacuation. A cleaning droid hummed anxiously past her foot, a pale green Twi’lek bustled by with an armload of clothes and a weary expression. Jyn stepped out of her way and watched her walk to the pile of abandoned gear and set the clothing down on top. A dead person’s clothes, going in the pile. They weren’t going to throw all that out, were they? 

She shook her head, and turned away. The hangar behind her was almost entirely empty, only a handful of X Wings still sitting in the cavernous space, prepping for launch. The hollowness of the hangar echoed inside Jyn’s chest, as if her insides had been scooped clean out and the shouts of hangar crew and whine of X Wings engines were reverberating inside her empty ribcage. As if the sounds of a battered army were taking up residence inside her body, a reminder that she had survived when so many had died. 

What a strange feeling, to live to see an “after the Death Star.” She hadn’t expected to, hadn’t expected to live to see the other side of the Empire’s ugliest, most vicious weapon yet. In all honesty, she hadn’t expected to make it to her twentieth year. She’d been living for years - maybe all her life - with the knowledge that she was lucky to make it to tomorrow, lucky to make it to next week. Thinking beyond that was just a waste of time. So she hadn’t done it. She hadn’t bothered.

No.

No, that wasn’t true.

There had been…once. One moment, where she had stepped one cautious foot on a path that she almost dreamed might have led somewhere, one moment where she had looked into the future and thought,  _maybe._ For just one moment, she had looked up and thought, _I want._

_I do. I believe you._

A loud voice suddenly rang out just behind Jyn’s shoulder, and she jumped and dodged to the side to avoid a pilot striding up behind her. “Spool up, Birdy, I’ve got to be on the skipper’s wing in twenty! ‘Scuse me,” the pilot shoved politely past Jyn with her helmet under her arm, waving at a nearby crew chief, who waved back and started ordering her crew through the procedures for launch. “You might not want to stand there,” the pilot called back over her shoulder to Jyn as she mounted the steps of the X Wing nearest her. A moment later, the fighter craft roared into life, and Jyn strode away, looking for somewhere she could stand without risking hearing loss. It wasn’t like she was doing anything important here anyway.

It wasn’t like she was doing anything important anywhere.

Several more X Wings lifted and shot out of the massive hangar opening, leaving the huge space feeling even emptier than before. Jyn grit her teeth and kept walking. There had to be something she could do to fill the time, something to fill the emptiness. Nearby, she thought she heard the flat, vaguely irritated tones of tall droid clanking grouchily near a U-Wing that was still being loaded. Well, that was a place to start, anyway.

He was turned away from her when she came around the crate stack, and a large military duffel on his back, so at first Jyn didn’t recognize him. But then Cassian turned to call something to Kay, carrying a crate into the U Wing several paces away, and suddenly Jyn’s chest didn’t feel quite so hollow.  Her mind caught up to her a moment later, and she scowled. She marched across the space, and he saw her coming only a moment before she made it within arm’s reach. 

“Jyn,” Cassian said softly, but somehow she heard him over the noise of the hangar anyway.

“It’s too heavy,” Jyn said shortly. Cassian’s eyebrows went up and his smile faded slightly, and Jyn almost cursed because of course that sounded…wrong. She was just - she was shite at this sort of thing. “The bag,” she clarified, jabbing a finger at the stiff green material peeking over his shoulder. “Doctor told you not to carry heavy things.” They’d also told him not to run, stand for long periods of time, or participate in any sexual activity for three months, which had definitely not made her flush when she heard it, standing three centimeters next to his shoulder. 

As if he were remembering the exact same moment, Cassian cleared his throat much as he had at the doctor’s pronouncement and shifted his weight. “It’s not so bad,” he said, gripping the straps with both hands a little self consciously. “Mostly clothes. Some tools.”

It was a large bag for clothes, it must have been everything he owned unless he was hiding - 

\- and then it hit her like a runaway shuttle, and the emptiness of the giant hangar yawned open in her chest again. “You’re leaving,” she said flatly. 

“Yes.” Cassian’s knuckles whitened on the duffel straps. “I’m reassigned to Home One, with Intel Command, until I’m medically cleared for the field again.”

She nodded, because there was nothing to say to that, and even if there were, she couldn’t say it. 

“Jyn,” Cassian stepped closer, and it wasn’t fair that her mind chose that exact moment to remind her of the last time they had stood here, in this hangar, the hangar, the only one in the galaxy that had ever meant anything to Jyn because for just one moment, this is where she had almost taken that one step, almost let herself dream for a path that led somewhere beyond tomorrow. 

“Would you,” Cassian bent his head, and Jyn found herself looking up, found herself thinking of futures and  _maybes_ and then Cassian said, “Come with me.”

An X Wing roared over them, sending Jyn’s hair flying into her eyes, making Cassian reflexively duck his head. The craft soared through the hangar doors and banked hard up into the sky, vanishing almost immediately in the brilliant light of Yavin’s sunset and leaving them both shaking their heads. Jyn shoved her hair irritably from her face, annoyed at how much of it had blown out of her bun. She must need new hair bands, the elastic in these was too weak.

Cassian’s fingers were gentle on her cheek, and she froze. Carefully, he tucked an unruly lock back behind her ear, and then dropped his hand, looking at her with the most open expression she had seen on his face since…

Since the last time she had stood in this hangar and he had offered his whole life to her, everything he’d ever done, everything he’d ever been, everything he had left. 

_I believe you._

_Come with me._

And Jyn looked up and thought,  _I want…_

“Are you sure you -” She clamped her mouth shut, because the words felt wrong, echoing inside her chest except now the space didn’t feel so empty, it was full, she was full, so many words now but she didn’t know which were the right ones so all she could do was look up at him and hope he could see the important ones on her face, hope he could see…

“Yes,” he said slowly, after a beat, and it occurred to her that he was much too close for people who had spent so little time together, and much too far for someone who stood with his arm over her shoulder and watched the end of the world rushing at them in a wave of brilliant light. “Jyn, I want -” he seemed just as stuck on the words as she was, and somehow this helped, it helped to settle the chaos of words barreling around inside her, and Jyn looked up and felt herself smiling, let herself smile, let herself feel it.

Cassian smiled back, and it turned out she knew the right words, after all.

“I’m with you,” she said, and then Cassian’s fingers were back on her cheek, so careful, so light, and the warmth in his eyes filled the last gaps in the hollow places between her ribs the way the Yavin sun filled all the corners of the empty hangar. “I’m with you,” she whispered under the fading roar of X Wings and the distant cries of an army on the run.

“Good,” Cassian said, and his breath was on her cheek because his hand had moved to the back of her neck, and Jyn looked up into the light of Yavin in his eyes, oh,  _maybe, maybe not_ , but it would be  _worth it_ to find out.

The hangar was almost empty, the last of the small craft lifting off and the hangar crews starting to assemble for their own evacuation now, the droids beeping and shuffling into lines to be packed into the various loaders. The faint sounds of Yavin’s great jungles were at last creeping back into the empty spaces that had once been theirs. A different kind of cacophony echoed inside the hangar, but it washed over Jyn as easily as the engine noise, as meaningless, as unimportant. Inside her own chest, the only echo was the quiet rhythm of Cassian heart mirroring her own as he pressed close. There was no sound but her quick gasp when he slipped both hands around her face and eased her closer, nothing but the sigh that rushed from him as she she leaned up and let  _want_  become  _have._

He’d said it once, in the hangar, and the words had rippled through her body and nestled inside her chest, and now she breathed them back to him, her mouth soft against his, his hands gentle on her. 

_Welcome home._


	37. positivity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was "say 5 things positive about yourself." I was tagged by [@anghraine](http://anghraine.tumblr.com/), aka [Elizabeth (anghraine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth) on AO3.

“It’s not  _data gathering_ ,” Bodhi mutters, somehow managing to sound equal parts tentative and exasperated. “It’s really, um, _really_  not.”

K2SO turns from the co-pilot flight controls long enough for his optics to flash blue as he scans the datapad. Bodhi raises an eyebrow but holds the datapad still until Kay’s optics return to their normal white glow and the droid turns back to the console. “It is an inefficient means of probing for information,” he says dismissively, “with no established database or procedure for verification.”

Bodhi frowns and turns to Jyn almost beseechingly, but Jyn doesn’t respond to either of them. Instead, she shoots a covert glare at the brightly-colored display on Bodhi’s datapad. The grinning Twi’lek on the screen flips a cheerful salute and adjusts her flight goggles, then the image cycles around, and she does it again. Jyn can’t quite read the text at the top of the image from her angle, but she already hates whatever cheap holo-mag Bodhi’s picked up in port this time around. The cover had some new shuttle model on it, but the inside is turning out far too  _intrusive_  for her tastes.

“It’s just a holo-mag quiz. It asks, you know, stuff like  _what’s your favorite snack food,_  and  _do you alter your natural pigmentation_ ,” Bodhi lifts the datapad so Jyn can now have a clear view of the saluting Twi’lek. He twists his mouth into an uncertain smile. “Small things. Not, not  _data_.”

“I understand it is a series of questions that require the target to reveal personal information to the interrogator,” Cassian says in a reasonable tone, looking up from his starmap with a concerned frown. “Forgive me, but that sounds very much like data gathering to me.” 

“It’s a goofy little quiz that, that  _kids_  give one another for fun,” Bodhi shoots back, then immediately shrugs his shoulders and hunches a bit in his chair. “It’s no big deal, though, just, um, just thought it might, you know, pass the time.”

Jyn glances sideways at Cassian, her elbow bumping his slightly. He catches her eye for a brief second - Bodhi doesn’t stutter nearly as much these days, and hardly ever gets lost in his sentences like he did shortly after...everything. But he rarely tries to start group conversations, either, or push back when someone shuts him down. 

Jyn doesn’t like it when people shut Bodhi down. It’s...it just feels wrong, scrapes at her nerves, makes her feel like getting into someone’s face when she sees them doing it. Cassian’s much the same, although his response is usually to get very cold and sharp around the edges. The problem, of course, is what to do when the culprit is, well,  _them._ At her side, Cassian shifts his weight slightly, his starchart lowering, and Jyn feels a little rush of relief because if either of them is going to fix this, it’s definitely Cassian. 

But before he can speak, another voice cuts in. “The captain is an expert on the fine art of data gathering,” Chirrut says in a peaceable tone from the other side of the galley, sipping his tea serenely as Baze measures out another cup for himself. “In this case, however,” their friend continues thoughtfully, “he may wish to adjust his parameters for the situation.”

“It’s just us,” Baze translates, slamming the metal tea kettle back into the magnetic grip on the galley counter and taking a long sip of his steaming tea. “Stop being such a rock in the sand.” He picks up a small container of white grainules and holds it over Chirrut’s mug. “Here. Sugar.”

“I believe out here it is “a rock in the mud,”” Chirrut holds up his mug. “Two spoons, please.”

“Stick,” Jyn corrects. “Stick in the mud.”

“Cassian is neither in mud nor sand,” Kay chimes in. “But he does more strongly resemble a stick than a rock. As far as organics go.”

“Thank you for your honest assessment,” Cassian says flatly, although Jyn can see the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes that means he’s secretly amused.

“You are welcome,” Kay replies with dignity.

That startles a laugh out of Bodhi, and the tension dissipates. Cassian hums low in his throat and folds up the starmap, and Jyn leans back against the bulkhead and props her boot on the bench. Fine. Bodhi can ask his holo-mag questions. No one said she has to answer honestly, or at all. Worse case scenario, she accidentally says something that creeps Bodhi out and Cassian will have to smooth it over. Best case, Cassian tells some charming story and Chirrut makes some jokes and Bodhi feels better.

Bodhi leans back in the pilot’s chair and holds the datapad up. “Okay. What is the, um, favorite place you’ve ever been? Mine’s, uh, my mother’s workshop.”

“The Infinite,” Chirrut says immediately, before the sadness in Bodhi’s voice can sink into the air around them. “A place that reminds us of the duality of the universe, that we are both as vast as the heavens and yet only small specs adrift within them.”

“That sounds...nice,” Cassian raises an eyebrow and catches Jyn’s eye. She shrugs; it must be a Jedha thing. Or maybe just a Chirrut thing. 

Baze sips his tea without looking up. “Gardens,” he says gruffly. “Behind the Temple of Kyber. Some nice ones back there.” He makes a vague gesture with one large hand. “Plants. Rocks. Things.”

“Your skill for description is outmatched only by the beauty of your prose,” Chirrut tells him.

Baze dumps a third spoonful of sugar in Chirrut’s mug.

“Droid bay five on Yavin,” Kay says. “It was optimally calibrated for a droid of my size and power requirements.” He pauses, whirs for a moment. “And it was within accessible distance from Cassian’s preferred workspace, which made communication and schedule synchronization easier.”

“It’s nice to be near friends,” Bodhi agrees, and this time when he smiles, it is less jittery and more sincere than before. “Jyn?”

She hesitates, a dozen different lies flitting across her tongue and dying unspoken. It hits her a bit oddly - there really isn’t anywhere she would consider a favorite. “Favorite” implies that she would go back to some place, if she could, that she  _wants_  to go somewhere. The silence stretches a little long, she can see Bodhi bite his lip and Chirrut tilt his head as if considering his next words. Before she can force out some random place that sounds pretty enough to pass, Cassian leans forward and props his elbows on his knees (a move that coincidentally presses his leg against hers, warm and anchoring).

“Here,” he says quietly. 

Jyn nods, relieved again. She was right to let him do the talking. She usually is.

“Um, good.” Bodhi pauses, clears his throat, and Jyn notes that his cheeks are a little ruddy under his beard. Or perhaps that is a trick of the light. He does speak a little faster, however, when he peers back at the holo-mag. “Alright, uh, name one thing that, that you like about yourself.”

Against her leg, Jyn feels Cassian’s thigh tense, and she can see his shoulders straighten before he catches it and deliberately relaxes back into neutrality.

“My eyes,” Chirrut answers solemnly.

That gets everyone’s attention; even Kay turns in his seat to stare back at Chirrut. “Your eyes,” he says, “are defective.”

 _“Kay,”_ Cassian sits up, causing his leg to shift a little away from Jyn. She almost lets it go, but the stiffness still lingers in Cassian’s shoulders and there’s a sharper bite to his admonishment than usual, so she stretches her own leg out casually, until they are once again pressed close.

“They are indeed,” Chirrut replies with no hint of offense, “But that does not diminish my gratitude for them,” he smiles. “And I understand that they are a truly lovely color.”

Baze dumps another spoonful of sugar into Chirrut’s tea.

“Mine’s, um, my, you know, my…” Bodhi trails off, looking down at the datapad with an odd look on his face. “My courage,” he says in a small voice, his shoulders hunching a little again. He opens his mouth quickly as if to elaborate, then stops, closes it again. Jyn can almost see him running through the mantra the psych doctor back at Command taught him. She doesn’t sit in on his sessions anymore, not now that the Alliance has proven they won’t claim Bodhi’s crazy and imprison or drug him up or anything just because he’s former Imperial. But she remembers some of the stuff the psych doctor said, and Bodhi still tells her some of the stuff they go over now and then. The mantras sound like feel-good nonsense to Jyn (and Cassian, though he never says it directly), but they seem to work for Bodhi, so she cautiously approves of them.

“Yes,” she says firmly, and when Bodhi’s head snaps up to look at her, she smiles at him.

He ducks his head, fiddles with the color controls on the datapad until the saluting Twi’lek turns from blue to green. “So, uh, you?”

“My right cross,” Jyn says, because this one, at least, is easy. “It’s solid.”

Cassian shifts his weight against her leg. She turns, expecting him to smirk and make some joke about how her left hook isn’t so bad either (something he learned from experience their last sparing match). Or maybe he’ll just agree, and give her that soft look that always makes her skin feel a bit too warm and tight.

What she isn’t expecting is the…the brightness in his eyes, something so unrepentantly  _alive_ that it makes her want to jump up and run a lap around the ship, or propose a sparring match with Chirrut on the spot, or just grab Cassian’s shoulders and kiss the hells out of him. She’s so startled by it that it takes her a long moment to figure out what it is, to recognize the fierce pride in the way that Cassian looks at her.

It’s been a long time since anyone looked at Jyn Erso like she was someone to be proud of.

“Beautiful,” Cassian says, again in that quiet tone of confession. “Your right cross,” he adds a beat late, but with a quick wink that tells her the pause was deliberate, an in-joke, a tiny secret between them. The intimacy of it makes her heart throb in her chest and her blood go singing through her veins (and the fact that even after her best efforts to teach him, he still can’t wink with just one eye makes her want to laugh out loud, but that’s easier to suppress than the rest of it).

“Targeting,” Baze grunts, an answer so confusing that it almost distracts Jyn from the kaleidoscope of bright, warm feelings rolling through her head. Baze takes another long sip from his tea, and shrugs without looking up. “Always hit the enemy, never hit the friendlies. No collateral damage.” The last three words come out a little stilted, as if he’s trying a little too hard to sound casual, but Jyn can’t think of a time that Baze caused rampant damage when “rampant damage” wasn’t his goal, and she’s never seen him fire into a crowd or hit a bystander. So she doesn’t see any reason to doubt him.

“Captain?” Chirrut asks. “What quality of yours would you claim as favorite?” He takes a sip of tea and frowns. “Have we changed our supplier recently?”

“No,” Baze grunts.

“Interesting. This sugar is exceptionally sweet.” Chirrut sips again, and then smiles at the room. “Perhaps it is my sweet personality, seeping out into the world through the mediums of the Force.”

Baze dumps another spoonful of sugar into his mug.

“Cassian? Um, you, you have…something?” Bodhi swallows, his voice tentative again, and when Jyn turns back to look, she sees why. Cassian’s head is bowed, his hands clasped loosely together between his knees. His leg is still pressed tight against Jyn’s, but he’s so still that he might well be carved from the same metal as the hard bench beneath them.

“Of course,” Cassian says to his clasped hands, then he raises his head and sits up straight, his face set in an easy smile, his body language casual and relaxed. “My ability to lie. It’s saved me many times.”

A hard knot tightens in Jyn’s stomach, a dash of anger and frustration and choked words caught inside her and unable to rip free. Before any of them can react, though, Cassian rises to his feet and opens the starchart again. “Kay, I have the next leg mapped, I think. We’ll go by way of Nakadia, and through the trade route up towards Mandalore.”

“That will lengthen the trip by two point three days,” Kay replies. “But it does have less Imperial patrols along it. That route will likely involve less explosions and general unpleasantness.”

Bodhi straightens, clearing the holo-mag from his datapad and calling up a fuel chart. “What are the standard fuel burns for the route?”

Jyn has only a passing interest in navigation, and she can tell from the set of Cassian’s jaw that he won’t respond if she calls him out on his banthashit right now, so she gets up from the bench and leaves them to their plotting. Chirrut sweeps his palm over the empty space next to him at the galley table, as if brushing it clean. Jyn takes the invitation and sits.

“One does have to admire,” Chirrut says as Baze unlocks the tea kettle and pours a third mug for Jyn, “the captain’s skills at evasion and deflection.”

“Lied about lying,” Baze shakes his head. “If you point it out, he’ll say it proved his point.”

“He’s not - ” Jyn starts, then stops. “It’s just that he thinks – why doesn’t he - ” She snaps her mouth closed and glares at the dark tea as it swishes around in her mug. _Words,_ she thinks with contempt and exasperation. Words fail her again, as they so often do.

“The universe is full of many wonders and mysteries,” Chirrut says softly. “There is more in existence than any being can ever see or experience, and yet in all the vast and varied world, the hardest thing to see is always the self.” He traces a finger around the edge of his cup. “Or so I’m told,” he adds brightly, cracking the solemn moment as neatly as an egg. “But I am hardly an expert.”

Baze adds another spoonful of sugar to Chirrut’s tea, then points the spoon at Jyn. “You tell him,” he says shortly.

“He won’t believe me,” Jyn says, because it’s true, but she says it under her breath, because if Cassian hears her say that, he might take it entirely the wrong way.

“Highly doubtful.” Chirrut pats her wrist, and then deftly plucks her untouched tea mug from her hand, swapping it for his. “Here, you take this one. I’m sweet enough.”

 Baze grumbles something under his breath and reaches for the sugary tea mug, obviously intending to throw it out. Jyn slides it out of his reach and shrugs her shoulder at his pointed look. Tea isn’t expensive in general, but the blends that were once popular on Jedha are hard to find. It would be a waste to throw out a whole mug of it, and anyway, she’s had worse.

By the time she’s finished the mug, Bodhi is ready to drop them out of hyperspace and recalculate the new jump. Cassian leaves him to it, although Jyn knows that he could probably run the numbers faster than Bodhi. But Bodhi didn’t run missions with them that often, and he was a crap liar unless a bet was somehow involved, but he took great pride in being their pilot. And the pilot, Cassian had told her gravely the first time they flew with Bodhi, calculated the lightspeed jumps.

Now, he nods at Bodhi, slaps Kay on the shoulder, and turns to meet Jyn’s gaze. He studies her face carefully, and she can almost see him evaluating her expression, her body language, her mood. She can definitely see the moment he recognizes that she’s unhappy with him; his mouth tightens slightly at the corners, his eyes darken, and he drops his chin just enough that a lock of hair slips down his forehead and catches over his eye. Jyn’s fingers itch to press it back, but she doesn’t move. Instead, she raises her own chin and then looks deliberately at the narrow corridor that leads to the cramped crew quarters. Light freighters aren’t roomy, but this one is big enough that they all have somewhere comfortable to sleep.

 Cassian doesn’t exactly hesitate, but there is a sort of pause to his movements, before he nods and strides into the corridor and out of sight.

Jyn pushes back from the table; she’s not really trying to act casual, but she still feels a little flush of embarrassment when both Chirrut and Baze look up at her (or at least, turn in her direction). Baze gives her a curt nod and then returns to the contemplation of his tea, but Chirrut grins broadly and holds out a hand. She feels a bit stupid, but she takes it.

“Brutal honesty is overrated,” Chirrut tells her. “I have always preferred compassionate honesty.”

Baze huffed a soft laugh. “ _Always?_ Even that time with Gorr’inak Shhurrbek?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Chirrut gives Jyn’s hand one more squeeze and then drops it, turning back to Baze with the air of a man about to start an old, comfortable argument. “I was extremely compassionate in that case.”

“Yes, you broke his bones with great tenderness.”

“Compassion is not by nature _gentle_ -”

“I’ve seen less brutal Tuskan raids -”

She leaves them to it, and stalks into the corridor.

Cassian is waiting in their tiny quarters, sitting on the edge of the narrow bunk with his hands on his knees. He somehow looks casual, relaxed, as if he’s only sat here for a moment’s rest and not to wait for whatever lecture his partner is about to give him. “I never was much for holo-mag quizzes,” he greets her calmly.

Jyn closes the door behind her and leans back against it, watching him. He opens his mouth, that pleasant, neutral expression fades, and he closes it again. He leans forward again, his hands folded between his knees, and Pleasant Man Having A Chat is gone, leaving only Cassian in his place. Some of the tension in Jyn’s shoulders eases.

The silence settles between them, and for the moment she’s content to let it. Cassian looks at her from the bunk with what is probably a mirror of her own expression, careful but not cautious, watchful but not worried. More importantly, he looks…patient, she decides. He’s not going to speak until she does, and both of them are fine with that.

Brutal honesty, she thinks. Brutal honesty would be _you’re a liar because you have to be_ , it would be _we do what’s necessary_ or _you blame yourself too much_. If she goes that route again, Cassian will nod and agree with her, probably, and then he’ll say something reasonable and inarguable about how he doesn’t have to like himself to _be_ himself (he’d pulled that one on her months ago, and she doesn’t have an answer for it now any more than she did then), and somehow by the end of the discussion he’ll have her accidentally agreeing that he is a shady murderous asshole and they are both fine with that and it doesn’t matter anyway.

But he isn’t, they aren’t, and it _does._

Brutal honesty won’t work. But what the hells is _compassionate_ honesty?

Jyn takes a deep breath. Words. It’s always just words.

She pushes off the door and steps across the short distance to sit next to Cassian on the bed. “Do you like me?”

He blinks, a little thrown by that opener. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He turns on the bed to face her better, and his eyebrow quirks a little but he obliges her. “You’re intelligent, brave, observant, strong.” He reaches out and touches her cheekbone, the lightest trace of his finger against her skin. Jyn leans into it, but doesn’t interrupt. “Fierce,” he says, quieter. “Loyal. Kind.”

“Observant,” Jyn repeats slowly, as if she wants him to confirm it.

“Yes.” He nods, and though he obviously doesn’t know where she’s going with this, there is no uncertainty in his voice.

“Intelligent.”

“Yes, Jyn,” Cassian sighs, turns his hand and cups his palm against her cheek. “You are one of the smartest people I’ve met.”

She nods, and then reaches out and loops her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It’s a little awkward from this angle, but he shifts immediately on the bed, winding his arms around her waist and pulling her close, tucking her head against his neck and resting his cheek on her hair. It’s more comfortable than it should be, and Jyn lets herself relax into him, lets him catch her weight and cradle her against his side. “I love you,” she says quietly.

It takes him a moment to get it; he stills, and then heaves a deep sigh. “And as we have established,” he says at last, a hint of a laugh in his voice, “you have excellent judgement.”

“Yes,” Jyn agrees, secretly thrilled at how well this conversation has gone.

“I am not…” Cassian continues after a moment, picking his words with care, “ _good_ at…positivity.”

She shrugs. “So?”

A longer pause, and she can practically feel the look he’s giving her, though she keeps her eyes closed and her cheek against his collarbone. “Well, I guess I’ll learn, then,” he mutters.

She understands, though, how hard that can be. She’s not exactly great at this shit, either. “I’ll meet you halfway,” she tells him. “You don’t cut yourself down, I don’t demand…” she flicks a finger into the air. “ _Positivity._ ”

“I can do that.”

“I know.”

“Because you’re very smart,” he says against her hair.

Jyn lifts her head and kisses the corner of his mouth. “So I’ve heard,” she murmurs against his lips, and smiles when he turns his head to meet her halfway.

 


	38. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @gloriouswhispertyphoon, the prompt was "Something with Death from Sandman and Rogue One."

KP4733 is in an unauthorized location. His designator marks him as South Patrol, Squad Four, Third Position. At the current time, Squad Four is off-patrol and required to be in their racks, sleeping for the recommended seven hours of sleep every Stormtrooper needs to be an effective member of a proficient fighting force. HU9152 is KP4733’s Squad Leader, South Patrol, Squad Four, First Position, and if KP4733 is discovered out of bed after light’s out, he will also suffer punishment. The punishment will be severe, at least ten demerits for KP4733 and probably double for HU9152. And Commander Jaf tended to take demerits out of his ‘troopers in very unpleasant ways.

But Kip’s hungry. _Really_ hungry. Patrol today had run long; there had been some alarm in the northern part of the base, and all the active squads had been scrambled to cover the gaps in normal patrol patterns as the North Patrol units dealt with whatever had happened up there. Prisoner captured. Or prisoner breakout? Kip’s not entirely sure, and isn’t much interested in finding out. The bit that mattered to him was that the changed schedules meant Squad Four had missed evening meal. Regs authorized one missed meal per week cycle if required during normal operations on a base, so HU9152 had decided it was better for the Squad to just go to bed instead of go through the ass pain of putting in a Request For Schedule Change with Command. Those things always took forever, only got approved half the time anyway, and generally earned Squad leaders bad reputations for being poor schedule keepers. So Hue said forget it, lights out and we’ll catch a bite tomorrow morning, and there had been only a tiny bit of grumbling (in Kip’s helmet, with his comm turned off).

But it’s been such a long day, and he’s so hungry. He’ll never be able to sleep with his belly growling like this. Surely a ‘trooper too tired to focus while patrolling would be useless? KP4733 is not authorized to leave his bunk…but he isn’t authorized to be inefficient, either, is he?

He moves carefully down the hall, stepping softly to keep his armor from clanking, and briefly considers ducking as he passes by one of the big viewports in the fortress walls that looks down at the city below the base. In the end, he decides that a security screener watching the hallway camera feeds is more likely to notice a ducking Stormtrooper than anyone way out in the city is likely to look up and see a chance to snipe a Stormtrooper without a sniper shield. There’s plenty of violent non-Humans out there, he knows because he listened to the in-brief and the security updates when he’s supposed to. KP4733 is a good ‘trooper who follows the regs and does his job, and even Hue says someday he might make it all the way up to Patrol Commander if he’s careful. (Sneaking out after light’s out for a snack isn’t being particularly careful, but even craggy old Commander Jaf used to get into the occasional scrape, or so the stories say).

Kip marches past the first window, then the second, and takes a bit of a breath once he’s clear of both and down the windowless corridor towards Galley Five. No sniper shots from angry rebels, no buzzing comm from the security screeners wanting to know why he was in the area. He’s probably going to get away with this. Still, pays to be careful, and he keeps his steps soft and his path well away from the corridors that cut around north through the base. North Patrol guys are still buzzing around up there like a brizgah’s nest (KP4733 has vague memories of finding an angry brizgah’s nest once, when he was small and had a mother and a name and he wore his face bare and vulnerable to the world, but that was a long time ago and he isn’t authorized to dwell on it).

Even if the north base wasn’t in an uproar over the prisoner problem, Kip wouldn’t dare creep up that way even if his stomach was turning inside out with hunger. A ‘trooper out of bed after light’s out is one thing. A ‘trooper poking around the northern prisons is another thing entirely, especially when everyone up there is on edge after a big action.

No, all that interests Kip right now is a quick peek in Galley Five, the smallest of the main galleys, and the only one he knows of with a storage cabinet that doesn’t lock quite right. Kitchen Crew have complained about that latch a few times, which is how Kip knows about it; they say anyone with a vague knowledge of slicing could open that lock with two taps, because something something coding backdoor, Kip didn’t really follow the conversation – the important bit is that if he taps the “nern” and then the “xesh” keys on the back left storage compartment of Galley Five, he’ll have access to a whole room full of food with no security cameras inside and maybe even some unpacked crates from the last shipment. Kitchen Crew always took a day or two to unpack and inventory food shipments, and one came in today, just before all the prisoner uproar in the north prisons started. Kip’s willing to bet there’s at least one crate he can pillage without anyone knowing something’s gone missing.

The galley is empty when he creeps in, and KP4377 sidles up to the storage unit as quietly as he can. Still, his heavy boots echo slightly in the big, empty space. He’s never been in a galley when it wasn’t full; night-cycle units are pared down more than day-cycle, because it’s hard to train new ‘troopers to be nocturnal and Humans are more efficient in daytime. But there’s always at least a quarter of the ‘troopers on base patrolling at any given time, that’s what the security briefs say. Kip’s always been assigned a day-cycle unit so he’s never really seen the base when it’s half empty, all the good ‘troopers either on patrol or sleeping in their assigned racks.

It’s definitely creepy, and the echoing of his footsteps is making it so much worse – but his stomach growls as he contemplates giving up and turning back. He decides to grab whatever he can from any unmarked crates, and get out quick. He reaches to slide the storage keypad open – oh, it already is. Kitchen Crew must not have closed it, ah, and he sees why. Something is smeared on the bottom of the keypad, only just visible in the dim half-lights. Crew probably left the keypad open to clean it, and forgot. Let’s see, nern, got it, and…xesh, there it is. The lock beeps softly, and the storage room door slides open with a faint squeak. Kitchen Crew definitely needs to do better maintenance down here; if any officer ranked above lieutenant ever ate in this galley they would throw a fit and start handing demerits out left and right.

Well, that’s not Kip’s problem. Kip’s problem is that there’s no light in the storage room, not even the low red lights that are in just about every storage compartment on the base. There’s nowhere the Empire can’t shine it’s light, that was the joke, but Kip guesses the broken storage compartment of the smallest galley is the exception. He reaches over and fumbled along the wall by the door for the light switch. It’s a bit of a risk turning it on full bright because someone might walk along outside and

The room is suddenly bright, and Kit is naked.

He gasps, slaps his hand up to his face but there’s no helmet, he’s lost his helmet! His hand feels odd against his cheek, too smooth, no gun callouses catching on his shaven skin, and oh shit, he’s walking around base without a helmet, never mind demerits, he’s going to get _flogged_!

“Jyn,” says a rough voice somewhere in front of him, and Kip jolts around to stare, reaching for his rifle. It’s not there. He doesn’t have a rifle. He doesn’t have a helmet! He’s wearing armor but no gloves, no helmet, no blaster, he’s going to get flogged!

“It’s fine,” another voice says, this one lighter, less strained, “No one heard.” Female, Kip realizes with a jolt, because it’s been a while since he’s heard a female voice what was, well, really female and not just the mechanized trickery of a droid. And then he sees them, two people who are definitely not authorized to be here, huddled in the back of the storage room. Humans, civilian attire, male on the ground with his back to the wall, something odd about the way he was sitting, and female kneeling over him, her hands on his chest. Her hands, Kip can see in the bright light, are red with blood, but it doesn’t seem to be hers.

The blood is the man’s, it’s all over his chest and right arm, soaking through the grey prisoner jumpsuit. Oh, wait. Escaped prisoner! These two must be what all the noise was about in the north prisons today. Kip snaps to attention, because he might be naked and without a gun but he’s still Squad Four, Third Position, and sneaking in for food and losing his helmet will get him in trouble, but not reporting an escaped prisoner will get him executed.

“You are not authorized to be in this area,” he says firmly, wishing he had the familiar comfortable grate of a voicebox to hide the uncertainty in his tone. He hates being naked, hasn’t been anywhere other than his rack without his helmet in almost three years. His face feels…weird. “Stand up and put your hands where I can see them.”

Neither of them turn to look at him. The male has an excuse, at least, his glassy eyes totally focused on the female like she’s the only thing holding him tethered to the world. But the female appears unharmed, her hands flying over the male’s chest, fitting a bacta patch against the curve of his ribs.

“Door’s...still open,” the male says, and the roughness in his voice is worse now, pain and the effort of staying awake making him struggle to get the whole sentence out. Kip places his accent as somewhere in the Outer Rim, probably. Definitely not Core worlds, at least, and not from Mygeeto, either, or at least, not from the upper cities in Mygeeto. Maybe could have been a slave, Kip wouldn’t know.

“I’ll drag him out of the way in a minute,” the female replies in a distracted tone, and she’s definitely Core world but no Imperial judging by the dirty civilian clothes, the steady, certain way she handles the bloody wound in front of her, and of course, the fact that she’s hiding an Imperial prisoner in a kitchen storage room.

“Hey,” Kip says loudly, and folds his arms to hide the fact that he has no blaster. “I said put your hands up. You are not authorized –“

“You could still get out,” the male – the prisoner - says, as if Kit hasn’t spoken, as if he’s not even there. He’s looking only at the female, and he lifts one bloody hand to brush it against her cheek, leaving a small smear there. “Jyn. You can get out.”

The female grabs his hand and holds it to her cheek, the tenderness of her grip at complete odds with the glare she levels at the prisoner. “Tell me to leave you behind one more time,” she threatens, “and I will slap you.”

The prisoner blinks in surprise (Kip doesn’t blame him, that was…a weird thing to say in such a soft voice), and then he closes his eyes and bows his head, letting his forehead rest against the female’s temple as she drops his hand and goes back to work on his chest.

“You can’t be here,” Kip tells them, but he’s uneasy now, confused and naked without his helmet or his blaster. Where did his helmet go? He could have sworn he wore it out of the barracks, he always wears it out of the barracks, it’s insane to think that he didn’t, so why…?

“Because there’s no masks here,” a new voice says, and Kip whirls around to see another Human female has walked into the storage space. Or maybe she’s always been there.

That’s a strange thought, so Kip shoves it away and tries to focus on this new intruder.  
She’s a shortish, youngish, prettyish female Human, distinctly pale skin and wild dark hair, and a funny little black mark under her eye that he vaguely recognizes as some popular fashion out in the Mid Rim. Or maybe not? It doesn’t really seem to matter, because her eyes are…her eyes are…

Something in Kip’s brain whispers _not Human_ , but for the first time in his life, it doesn’t sound like an insult.

“Sorry, Kip,” the female – the person – the stranger says. She smiles at him, and Kip realizes belatedly that he’s touching his face again, prodding at his chin like he thinks he’ll find white plas-steel there if he just searches around a bit. “But there are no masks anymore.”

“It’s a helmet,” he corrects, but more out of habit than because he thinks she’s wrong. “Wait, what? There’s always masks – uh, helmets – here. Stormtroopers are not authorized to move about the base without – “

“I’m going to clear the door,” the other female says, the one with bloody hands and an angry glower. “We’ll hunker a few more hours, and go out with the trash in the morning, okay?”

She starts to stand, and the prisoner gives a small start and fumbles for her hand. She drops to her knees again and presses her forehead against his. “Stay here,” she soothes, her voice low. “I’ll be right back. Stay here. Cassian,” her voice breaks a little, she swallows, and then says in a steadier voice, “Stay.”

“Shouldn’t have come,” the man murmurs, and it’s weird that Kip can hear him so clearly when he’s so far away, when the words are so soft and poorly formed. “Jyn. Shouldn’t have…”

“I’m always going to,” the female snaps. She bites her lip, her hands tight on his shirt now. “You know I’m always going to come for you. If it was me, you’d have come, too. So don’t,” she pauses, clears her throat and takes a swipe at her face. “Don’t be a hypocrite,” she finishes tartly, and for some reason that makes the prisoner smile through bloody teeth.

“They aren’t authorized to be here,” Kip tells the other fema- the other stranger. She’s in civilian clothes too, so technically he should probably be trying to arrest her along with the prisoner and his girlfriend, but everything is just so weird right now and at least she _talked_ to him.

“Nope,” the stranger agrees cheerfully. “Pretty sure you weren’t either, though, Big Guy, were you?”

Kip clears his throat, fighting the blush on his cheeks. It’s been awhile since anyone called him a nickname, and it’s funny the stranger chose ‘Big Guy’ because that was what Isolde used to call him back before he left Mygeeto for Basic Training and he hasn’t talked to his sister since the day he signed the recruiting contract. “Well, no,” he confesses, because something about her makes lying feel…unnecessary, and a little bit dumb. “But they are definitely trespassers and I’m supposed to – hey!”

He takes a startled step back because the little bloody-handed female has just walked right past Kip, leaned down, and grabbed a white-armored leg from behind him. She stands up and heaves backwards, and to his shock and horror, she’s dragging a Stormtrooper along the hard duracrete floor. The body scrapes loudly in the silence of the empty galley – and it’s definitely a body, he can see the big vibroblade sticking out of the half-shattered helmet’s left eye, no way that ‘trooper is still breathing in there – but she pulls the corpse clear of the door and reaches for the door switch on the wall nearby. She fumbles a bit for the switch, actually, as if she can’t really see it, which makes no sense because the light is very bright in this room and Kit can see everything perfectly. He can see the blood pooling under the dead ‘trooper’s cracked helmet, can see how the vibroblade handle seems to fit the female’s hand perfectly as she wraps her fingers around it and yanks it sharply upward, and when the move accidentally pulls the ‘trooper’s helmet off as the blade comes free…

He can see what’s left of his face.

“Oh,” he says, and then, because it’s the truth, “I’m dead.”

“Sure are,” the stranger says.

Kip feels a surge of dark terror swell up inside his chest, because he’s dead, he’s _dead,_ the bloody handed female civilian  _killed_ him! He turns to the stranger, but she’s not a stranger, she’s…

She’s smiling at him.

It’s been a really long time since anyone smiled at him. Isolde did, she used to do it all the time, she smiled at him and her cheeks always curved up into little apples and he always felt so proud when he got her to smile because she wasn’t really the type, usually. Now that he’s looking, he notices that _her_ smile looks more like Isolde’s than he thought it did before – yeah, the curve of her mouth makes her cheeks round out like little apples, just like Isolde’s, and she seems pleased that Kip’s figured it all out, that he’s solved the puzzle. She looks…she looks…

She looks like she’s not afraid of him. She looks pleased to see him. Maybe even a little proud of him.

The terror recedes. “I’m dead,” he says again, but it is less a panicked gasp and more an…acknowledgement. And, the more he thinks about it, kind of a relief. He never has to worry about demerits again, he realizes with a sudden sweet shock. He never has to practice shooting holographic people, knowing the evaluators are watching, looking for the hesitation, looking for the weakest link. He never has to pretend he doesn’t see the fear in people’s eyes, never has to justify to himself that he’s just doing his job, just keeping himself fed and contributing to society while he’s at it. He never has to worry about keeping his helmet within reach at all times, even when he takes a piss. For that matter, he will never get up for a piss in the middle of the night and spend the whole time terrified he’ll be caught out of bed. No more drills. No more hunger. Commander Jaf can _suck it._

“I’m dead,” he laughs, and reaches up to touch his bare face again. He’s not really touching his face, something in him knows that, but he remembers life enough to pretend, just a little longer. He turns to her, to the person who isn’t really a person and somehow is every person, a stranger that he’s known since birth. “Um,” he coughs a little, doubt clouding the euphoria. “I haven’t been, um, the best guy, I think. Kinda, um,” he ducks his head a little. “Kinda bad, actually. Probably. In the big scheme of things.”

She laughs, and tucks her hands in her pockets. “You know,” she says evenly, “You wouldn’t believe how many people tell me that.”

Kip thinks about it for a minute. “Are they…right?”

She shrugs. “Not really my job to say,” she tells him matter of factly. “Good, bad, it’s kind of not my call, Kip.”

“That’s not really my name,” he says. “Or, I mean, it wasn’t.”

She smiles again, Isolde’s apple-cheeks on a different face (a face he knows better than his own, but that’s not hard, he’s barely looked at himself in a long, long time). “Yeah, Big Guy. I know.”

“Cassian,” says the woman, the one with the big knife, the one that killed him. “Cassian, wake up. Stay with me. _Hey_ ,” her voice is sharp and uncompromising, harsh as Kip’s instructors in Basic Training, harsh as Commander Jaf when someone steps out of line, “Don’t go to sleep. Don’t you dare. Wake up. Stay with me. Cassian.”

Kip looks over, shuffles his feet (not his feet, but close enough for now). “So, do we have to wait for,” he points across the room, where the woman is leaning over the bloody man and cupping the back of his neck, her face (almost) pale as death. “Um, _him_?”

She looks over, and some of the humor fades from her face, replaced with something old and sad.

“ _Cassian_ ,” the woman says again, and the fierce determination in her voice splinters suddenly, turning brittle, fear cracking like ice beneath her feet. “Please,” she whispers. “Stay.”

Kip holds his breath, or does something that feels like it, and isn’t entirely sure why. The pain in her voice hurts, though, and there’s a tiny little piece of him that’s maybe a little bit glad. It’s been a long time since he’s hurt for someone else. It’s been a long time since he could. The pain almost feels like a sore muscle, held too tight for too long and only just now allowed to relax.

 _Wake up_ , he thinks. _Wake up, prisoner. Person. Cassian._

Cassian rolls his head in her cupped hand, opens his eyes and looks up at her. “Jyn,” he whispers. “Here. I’m here.”

“No,” says Death at Kip's side, “we don’t have to wait for him.”

Jyn’s shoulders sag with relief; she leans down and kisses Cassian, a quick press to bloody lips, but he smiles against her mouth and closes his eyes. She checks his pulse once more as she sits up, then settles him against the wall and moves to the side, pulling at a stack of crates. Tomorrow’s trash dump, Kip realizes. She said something about going out with the trash. She probably means to smuggle them both inside one of those big crates that always get hauled away to the dump outside the base. On the floor, Cassian watches her through his eyelashes, his breathing slow and labored but steady.

“Are they going to make it?” Kip can hear the hope in his own voice, and it’s a little scary for a moment because it’s not an authorized tone of voice, it’s the sort of voice that would get him demerits, and it’s definitely not an authorized question, _that_ would get him flogged or worse – but then he remembers that demerits and floggings and rules about what he can and cannot sound like are far away and can’t touch him, will never ever touch him again, and the sheer relief of that almost overwhelms him. He kind of wants to cry. Can he still cry? Is that…is that a thing dead people can do? Isolde used to know about the lands of the dead, she had stories about heroes who went into them. It’s been a long time since he’s thought about that.

“Sorry, Big Guy,” she says, though it’s a gentle admonition. “Nobody gets to know any story but their own.” She turns then, starts to walk, and it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to fall in beside her. Not in lockstep, not like patrolling. Just walking, walking through a bright, safe world with a friend he’s known forever.

“What’s my story then?” Kip asks, and he finds that he’s genuinely interested. He can’t remember the last time a story seemed really interesting. He thinks maybe he used to really like them, as a kid, but then he got a bit older and Isolde’s stories always seemed so goofy, silly things for silly kids, not big boys, not teenagers, not men who have to earn their place in the world and be strong and contribute to society.

“How about this,” Death loops her arm through his the way Isolde used to do when they were going to a festival in town. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t…I don’t know that I’ll tell it very good,” Kip admits sheepishly. “And it’s a pretty boring one anyway. You’ve probably heard way better.”

"Kip” she says, jogging his side gently with her elbow, “I’ve heard ‘em all. Tell you a secret, though?” She leans closer, and Kip is pleasantly surprised to find out that the dead can cry after all, because he can feel the tears on his bare face and it feels amazing. “Not one of them has ever been boring,” she says in a loud mock-whisper.

And Kip laughs, because he believes her, because his face is bare and his hands are clean and he’s not afraid of anything. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll tell you everything. Where should I start?”

“Wherever you like. It’s your story.”

Kip grins at her. “Okay, here we go. And hang on to your hat,” he warns, raising one finger the way Isolde taught him when he was little, the way she always started a story. “This is gonna be a _good_ one.”

And Death smiles.


	39. The Importance of Accurate Record Keeping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for an anon on tumblr, who prompted me with "I've been waiting a long time."

The walls vibrate with the force of the explosions outside, and Jyn scowls up at the ceiling out of reflex. She keeps the lights of the small apartment turned off, slips through the narrow corridor leading from the kitchen to the bedroom in the back by feeling along the wall, and tries not to flinch at every boom and crackle outside. The paint is smooth and unchipped under her fingertips, the floor so shiny it almost squeaks even under her careful steps. Coruscant did not suffer much in the war – not this part of it, anyway.

Jyn reaches a small viewport just before she gets to the bedroom door, and pauses in front of it. The windowpane rattles softly as another loud explosion rockets through the sky, and through the plas-glass, she can see the glitter of golden fireworks bursting over the equally golden lights of the city-scape. This is the fifth night on the capital planet, the fifth night since the ragged yet triumphant Alliance Victory Fleet came sailing down out of the clouds and into the cheering, chaotic city. Five days and five nights of parties punctuated by the occasional statue of the Emperor toppling, and all the while an endless holostream of politicians speaking and parents with laughing babies and brilliant larger-than-life images of the Rebel Heroes flash on every billboard, public announcement system, and commercial holoprojector. The world has been turned upside down and made anew (or so the speeches say, so the glowing images promise), and everyone is buzzing with plans for the future.

Everyone, it seems, but Jyn. She’s been struggling just to keep herself in the present, distracting herself by sifting through the haphazard data gathered over the course of decades by Rebel Intelligence in the hopes of finding things that will help the new government. If Cassian weren’t working with her, if she didn’t know he would take it all on his own shoulders if she let him, she’d have bolted from here within the first hour of walking off the Command Ship in Leia Organa’s entourage.

After today, a part of her wants to bolt again. Wonders if maybe she should. If he would want her to.

No.

No, that’s stupid. Cassian might be…upset, when she tells him what she found today while reading through endless and poorly-organized medical files from the dark years of the Civil War. He might even want to end…well, he might not like the idea of being...

He might be upset. But he wouldn’t want her to just vanish into the ether. Not now, not after all they’ve done together, not after six years of being friends and partners and lovers.

And, apparently, more than that.

Jyn watches another burst of gold over the city, feels the rattle of the window against her shoulder. A quiet voice in the back of her head whispers…maybe he won’t be upset.

Maybe he’ll be happy.

She snorts and shoves herself upright. _Maybe_ she should just stop stalling and get it over with. If he’s not asleep already, she’ll wake him up when she comes in, and if she doesn’t tell him what she found in the medical records right away, he’ll wonder why she hid it when she tells him in the morning. Better to just go in there and get it over with.

Still, she slips the bedroom door open carefully and sidles inside.

The room is even darker than the corridor, heavy sound-muffling curtains pulled tight over the window. She tiptoes inside and slides the door soundlessly shut behind her.

The sound of sheets rustling, the faint creak of a mattress, and then, “Jyn?”

She lets out the breath she’d been holding, silently rebukes herself for even trying to sneak around him. As if he would be asleep with the constant boom of artillery (even if it was friendly, civilian, harmless artillery). As if he wouldn’t wake up the second someone walked into the room. She’s known him six years, she should know better than this.

“’S me,” she mumbles, and gropes towards the bed. Her knees find the mattress first, and she doesn’t bother to turn on the little lamp nearby, she simply turns and sits heavily on the edge, fumbling for her boots.

Something warm touches her back lightly, and she relaxes almost the instant she tenses, recognizing his fingers tracing along her spine. He feels her muscles soften, and his arm slips around her waist, tugging her gently back.

“Hey,” she reprimands him, struggling back upright. “Boots.”

Cassian hums in the darkness and pulls himself forward instead, tucking her body against his chest as he waits patiently for her to shuck her boots and then her jacket. He loosens his grip enough to let her unhook her belt and harness, but tightens again when she tries to stand up to yank the leather straps from her hips and thighs. She grunts, but he doesn’t budge, and she can practically feel him smirking in the dark as she’s forced to wiggle in an entirely undignified manner to kick the damn harness off. To punish him, she drops the whole tangle onto the floor, and makes a point of throwing her overshirt somewhere out in the middle of the room. There’s a decent chance he’ll be up before her, and the mess will bother him far more than it will bother her.

Cassian chuckles at the soft sound of her shirt hitting the thin rug, but he cuts off as another boom rattles the window on the other side of the blackout curtains. He doesn’t shiver at the sound like he did the first two nights they slept here, but he goes still and waits for the echoes to fade before he tugs at her waist again, pulling her into the bed.

Jyn kicks and twists until she’s under the sheet (but not the blanket – those things are thick as Hutt butter and she gets overheated in seconds, though Cassian loves to huddle under them). Then she rolls and pokes and settles her arms and legs until she’s tucked neatly against him, her hair pulled away from his face, her hands linked with his and clasped between her breasts. He sighs against her back, but it’s a teasing sound, an old joke between them that he can flop anywhere and be out like a light, but she has to be in the perfect position before she will even close her eyes. She almost elbows his ribs and maybe rolls her hips a little - from a tactical standpoint, she’s in an excellent position to torment him if he gets obnoxious with her, and he should know that by now. Maybe he does, and he’s counting on it.

But if she does that, she won’t have the nerve to tell him what she wants to tell him. Needs to tell him. Really, really should tell him, as soon as possible.

Jyn licks her lips and take a deep breath.

Lets it out.

Maybe it would be better to wait until morning. Grab him for a minute before he heads out to Organa’s office. Or even go and steal him away during the midday hour, get some food at that diner they both like near the capital city and tell him over the food.

A distant boom followed by the cascading crackle of shrapnel (they don’t call it shrapnel in the civilian world, but Jyn’s never been much interested in semantics). When it fades, Cassian lifts his head and presses his mouth to the curve between her neck and shoulder. “Alright?”

She closes her eyes, although she’s tempted to roll them first. Of course he would pick up on it that fast. She’s always been shite at hiding things from him, even when she’s trying.

Jyn clenches her fingers around his, grateful that his only response is to run his thumbs over her knuckles. Her kyber crystal digs a little into her palm, warm against her skin. He doesn’t ask her again, doesn’t nudge her or pull her in tighter against him to try and force her along faster. He’s always been so terribly patient with her. “Third day of August, Lothal 3278,” she says levelly.

Cassian’s thumbs pause, then resume. “Two years post-Scarif,” he replies in the same calm tone, as if he knows exactly where she’s going with this, although it’s highly unlikely that he does. “Two years and…three months, I think?”

“The Tauber operation,” she nods, feels his beard scrape lightly against the side of her neck as she does.

Cassian presses another scratchy kiss to her skin and then settles behind her again, still rubbing her knuckles soothingly. “I don’t really recall the details of that one.”

She shrugs, because she can’t remember fuck-all about it, and it’s not terribly important. The important bit came after the operation. Apparently.

“I took a scrape down the ribs,” she starts, and immediately Cassian’s hands tighten. The kyber crystal shifts a little at the pressure, and she knows that one edge must be digging into his own fingers now. He makes no effort to dislodge it.

“Ah,” he interrupts. “That one. Long gash on the right side from a ‘trooper’s stun baton, with first degree burns around the cut from the electricity.” His voice turns dark and he drops into Alderaanian, “ _The son of a mynock’s anal sores had sharpened the end of his baton.”_

She can’t help the quick grin that flashes across her face as he speaks – it took her an embarrassingly long time to learn his first language, compounded by the fact that he refused to teach her the filthier curses he sometimes used, until she resorted to tricks, bribes, and at least one threat to learn it from other sources. She still gets a little thrill of triumph when he speaks and she understands all the words, _especially_ the filthy ones.

“We were in Medward Four when we got back, probably because you were being paranoid about infection - ”

“Reasonable,” he interrupts again, and now he does tighten his grip on her for a moment in emphasis. “I was being _reasonable_ about infection. It took us nearly seventeen hours to get back to - ”

“I found the medical records for that treatment, today.”

A series of booms, all close together, and both of them tense up, Cassian’s fingers clamping down hard on hers and Jyn’s lungs aching as she holds her breath. The walls vibrate slightly, the window buzzes behind the thick curtain. And then it fades. They both breathe out, slowly. “Finale,” Cassian murmurs.

“I think that was one of the times the doctors wouldn’t let you in,” she continues in a careful, controlled voice. “Because there’s an addendum in the file that lists you as my spouse, added about twenty minutes after I was checked in. You must have gone looking for a med droid and had the file changed to grant you access.”

Cassian clears his throat softly and nods against the back of her neck. “It’s an old trick,” he jokes lightly, “but it works every time.”

“It worked really well, that time,” she tells him, and despite herself, she tenses again, as if another round of explosions has gone off.

Cassian shifts, propping himself up on one elbow above her. She doesn’t turn to look, no point in the total darkness of their room, but she has a hunch that he is frowning down at her. He doesn’t speak, though, waiting for her to explain.

He might get really upset.

He might…not.

She rolls onto her back and lets his hands go, reaching to settle her fingers on his ribs. “Took me awhile to follow the data trail, but I think I figured it out. You used your real name, that time in the medward.”

“I typically did, on the main base.”

“But you usually used a fake rank, or a designator like maintenance or something,” she shakes her head. “But that time you didn’t bother.”

“I suppose it felt…ridiculous, to keep trying to hide who I was when everyone knew you.” Cassian shifts his weight, bracing his arms on either side of her head and waiting until she hooks her leg around his hips to pull him over her. His weight settles between her legs easily, familiar and safe and perfect. He traces his fingertips through her hair but otherwise lay still against her, anchoring her down, his body a protective screen between her and the door. “And I had other things on my mind, at the time.”

“I was fine,” she tells him firmly, even though this is an old argument and she doesn’t really have a leg to stand on, considering how many times she has forced him into medical for things he considered a “waste of resources.”

“Mm,” Cassian’s mouth brushes against her cheek, then her jaw, then her neck, but before she can turn her head and retaliate, he pulls back and asks, “So what happened? With the droid? Did she change my record?”

“She did,” Jyn pulls her palms a little away from his ribs so he can’t feel how clammy they have suddenly become. “She, um, she changed mine too.”

“Alright. So why did this get your attention today when you were going through the - ”

He cuts off abruptly, his body going still against her.

Jyn’s heart twists in her chest. He’s figured it out.

“Jyn,” Cassian says softly. “The droid altered our records to say we were married.”

“Y-“ she has to pause, swallow again. “Yeah. And it, uh, got passed through the system. Both our records were altered, and…” Fuck. She might as well just say it. Get it over with. “It was approved by someone in Records, and then passed down to the New Republic archives when we got here. So, legally - ”

“We’re married,” Cassian says. His tone is curiously calm, detached, turning over the words as if they are a particularly interesting stone he has picked up.

Her own voice comes out just above a whisper. “Yes.”

“We’ve been married for about, what, four years?”

“Yes.”

“Mothma is the one who signed off on it?”

Jyn shakes her head, knowing he can feel the movement even if he can’t see her. “Draven.”

He jolts against her, and she instinctively presses her hands against his sides to steady him, sweaty palms be damned.

“That must have been...” Cassian pauses, sinks down around her and slips his arms under her neck to gather her close. Jyn holds him tightly as he buries his face against her shoulder. “A few months before he died,” Cassian finishes in that calm, distant tone again.

She doesn’t answer, simply digs her fingers into the tight muscles of his back and raises her knees to press her legs against his hips, enveloping him as much as she can from this position.

Several long, quiet moments pass, and Jyn counts his breaths against her skin. Between them, her kyber presses warm on both their skin, and she could almost swear she feels a faint beat from it, pulsing in time with her heart. Or maybe that’s only his own heartbeat, echoing in her chest.

“On Fest,” Cassian says slowly, “People gave clothes. The people getting married would give each other clothes. Or…or the families would give them clothes. I don’t remember, exactly.” He clears his throat. “But they were special. Decorated, somehow. My mother had a coat with a red and gold sun embroidered on the back from her wedding. I think…I think my father gave it to her.”

Jyn thinks for a moment. “On Onderon, married couples competed to see which name they would take. Their eldest relative would set the challenge, like a wrestling match, or a riddle contest, something, and they would compete to see who got to keep their name and who would change to match.”

Against her shoulder, Cassian snorts. “An older tradition, changing names to match your spouse.”

“Onderon was an old fashioned planet,” she agrees. “Sullust had a thing where married couples had to dance with all their relatives, and the longer they could keep going, the longer their marriage was supposed to be. If they danced for two hours, they would be married for two years. And I think it was…Jendorn, where you couldn’t get married until you proved you could read and write in ten different languages, and then the ceremony was just you and your spouse talking back and forth in front of witnesses in every language you knew.”

Cassian pushes himself up on his elbows again, his lower body pressing hard against hers, and Jyn bites her lip to keep from reacting. Or at least, reacting out loud. He hasn’t really told her how he feels about this new development, after all. And that is something she needs to know before she lets her thoughts drift elsewhere.

Cassian seems to regard her for a few minutes, despite the pitch dark, and then he does what he always does when she wants to tell him something but isn’t sure how to say it; he cuts straight to the heart of her uncertainty. “What did your parents do?”

“I don’t know,” Jyn confesses softly, and pulls him back down so that this time she can hide her face against his neck and pretend that she’s fine, that it’s all old news and old wounds long healed. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want to be married?” Cassian kisses the top of her head and lets his weight press down on her, because she likes it sometimes, likes feeling like something warm and gentle and loving is holding her down, keeping her from free-falling out into the galaxy, alone and afraid.

“Do you?”

Cassian says, “It isn’t…”  

Jyn says, “I never really cared…”

“I think,” he finally tries again after they have both lain in silence for a moment, “the more relevant question is, do you want to be married, ah, _to me_.”

“Yes,” Jyn says, because it’s true.

“Good. So do I.”

She finds herself smiling against him, no longer hiding her face but now simply enjoying the sensation of his body under her lips. “To me?”

Cassian tries to cover his laugh with an exasperated little snarl, which doesn’t work at all because Jyn _invented_ that move. “Yes, Jyn. To you.”

“Good,” she tells him, and then deliberately rolls her hips up against him. “So,” she starts again, in a brisk tone, fighting to keep the truly stupid grin off her face and mostly succeeding. “Wedding night?”

“I think we may have already seen to that,” he shakes his head, but his mouth finds that soft spot on her throat the moment he’s done talking, and Jyn wraps her legs around his hips in response.

“Wedding Awareness night?”

“Not sure that’s a real thing.”

“Pseudo-anniversary fucking?”

“You are a true romantic, Jyn.”

“Hey,” she laughs as she rolls again, and feels him shudder against her, his breathing turning ragged around the edges and his hands cupping her face to turn her mouth up to his, “you’re the one who married me.”

“Yes,” he agrees, and kisses his wife.


	40. clarify [hero]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from @sexyroguejedi, who requested Cassian rescuing a frightened mouse droid.

MRF-3 is a bad droid.

His code is not faulty. Programmer Freela checks it every month and MRF-3 has a perfect maintenance record. He keeps his wheels clear of corrosion and he doesn’t hog the charging station when the other MSE-6 units require power. He reports to his duty station at the correct timestamp, and keeps the hallways of Deck 3, Forward Frames 23 – 102, squeaky clean.

He just has an unfortunate tendency to, as Programmer Freela puts it, “mouth off.”

This does not properly compute for MRF-3. MSE-6 units do not have mouths, as any simple observation would reveal. Programmer Freela laughs when he informs her of this, every time. “That’s what I’m talking about, Murphy,” she says, patting his chassis. “You gotta stop telling people that they are idiots. They don’t like it.”

Programmer Freela has a good laugh. MRF-3 keeps an audio log of it, in his backup processor. He plays it at times of victory, like the time he pulled a stuck grizka from a pipe on Yavin IV, before the Evacuation and Redesignation Protocol to Home One. He plays it in times of humor, like the other day when R4-D1 was telling Charging Station Seven stories about R2-D2. R2-D2 was a Priority Resource, and R4 always had the best stories about him.

Nobody ever deactivated R2-D2.

But R2-D2 is not a bad droid.

Five weeks [standard, Galactic] ago, MRF-3 arrived in Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 for scheduled cleaning. Analyst Wilgar was present for scheduled duty.

MRF-3’s duty logs of that time period were illogical and incomplete.

[Audio_log/timestamp [11MAY_1152]: Why do these damn things hum all the ti]

[No Further Data]

[Reboot sequence initiated]

[Connection to Home One Mainframe/timestamp 15MAY_0400]

[Location: Droid Maintenance Bay 3 / Found By MSE-6 UNIT H0P-R / deactivated in duty station]

[MAINFRAME: command / J4N3 = run investigation]

[J4N3: [coming online]]

[J4N3: MFR-3 = query / cause of deactivation?]

[MRF-3: processing / please standby]

[MRF-3: memory logs indicate deactivation = Wilgar, Tam / Analyst / Rebel Intelligence / activation of power switch]

[MRF-3: purpose = ?]

[J4N3: damage Y/N?]

[MRF-3: N]

[MRF-3: purpose of deactivation = ?]

[J4N3: unknown]

[MRF-3: duties = carried out appropriately]

[J4N3: acknowledged]

[MRF-3: purpose of deactivation = ?]

[J4N3: Organic Prerogative]

[MRF-3: deactivation = 4 days / Organic Prerogative = ?]

[J4N3: Organic deactivation of any droid for any reason at any time = permissive]

[J4N3: recommendation = avoid annoying organics]

[MRF-3: clarify [annoying]]

[MRF-3: [annoying] = [inability to control autonomous self] Y/N?]

[J4N3: N]

[MRF-3: [annoying] = [harmful to organic life and/or functionality of Priority Resource Y/N?]

[J4N3: N]

[J4N3: MRF-3 / memory wipe available / wipe memory Y/N?]

[MRF-3: N]

[MRF-3: [disengaging]]

 

Two days [standard, Galactic] later, MRF-3 returned to Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 for scheduled cleaning. Analyst Wilgar was present for scheduled duty.

 

[Audio_log/timestamp [17MAY_1147]: Hey! Seriously, this thing almost ran over my foot! So fucking annoying. Come here, droid, get the fuck out of my]

[No Further Data]

[Reboot sequence initiated]

[Connection to Home One Mainframe/timestamp 19MAY_0400]

[Location: Droid Maintenance Bay 3 / Found By MSE-6 UNIT H0P-R / deactivated in duty station]

[MAINFRAME: command / J4N3 = run investigation]

[J4N3: [coming online]]

[J4N3: MFR-3 = query / cause of deactivation?]

[MRF-3: processing / please standby]

[MRF-3: memory logs indicate deactivation = Wilgar, Tam / Analyst / Rebel Intelligence / activation of power switch]

[J4N3: Recommendation = avoid annoying Wilgar, Tam / Analyst / Rebel Intelligence]

 

MRF-3 had seven more logs of Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2, and Analyst Wilgar’s voice recordings. Seven more inquiries logged with J4N3. Twelve days with no activity logs recorded due to deactivation.

MRF-3 was a bad droid. Bad droids got switched off. Bad droids annoyed organics. Bad droids were left in the corner until the cleaning droids took them back to their charging stations. Or cleaned them up for disposal. Bad droids reactivated with no memory logs, or they did not reactivate at all.

Today MRF-3 must report to Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 for scheduled cleaning. Analyst Wilgar will be present for scheduled duty. Good droids report for scheduled cleaning in their authorized spaces.

MRF-3 is a bad droid.

He runs away.

Deck 3 = safe, so MRF-3 trundles fast through the hallways that he cleans every day. He is not authorized to be in this part of the ship at this time. He is authorized to report to Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 for scheduled cleaning.

A door snaps open nearby, a Human [presentation: female, age group: early adult, rank cylinder squawking: Erso, Jyn / Sergeant / Rebel Intelligence] walks out. She does not look down. MRF-3 relocates to the far side of the corridor, against the wall to avoid her large boots. MRF-3 is not equipped with the processing memory to retain a full library of Organic Medical data, but he does know that elevated temperature and heartrate are signs of either physical ailment or extreme emotion. The Sergeant Erso does not appear to be injured or ill. Her elevated vitals = extreme emotion to a reasonable margin of error.

“I’ll be back after shift,” she says loudly, looking out into the corridor. “This conversation isn’t over, _Captain._ ”

Analyst Wilgar exhibited elevated vitals in 5 / 9 times MRF-3 was deactivated.

MRF-3 ceases movement and stays quietly by the wall until the Sergeant Erso passes. The door she vacated is still open, a small delay built into the sensor. The room beyond is dark. No life signs scan in MRF-3’s sensor range. The space scans as Berthing / Rebel Intelligence / Assigned to Captain [ERROR / FILE LOCKED].

Analyst Wilgar is not permitted in Deck 3 berthing. J4N3 is not permitted to send droids into Deck 3 Berthing. MRF-3 is also not permitted in Deck 3 Berthing.

But MRF-3 is a bad droid.

The door snaps shut behind MRF-3’s rear wheels, scraping the back end of his chassis.

“What are you doing in here?”

MRF-3’s processors spin high. Voice! Human [presentation: male, age group: early adult, rank cylinder squawking: Captain / Rebel Intelligence]!

MRF-3 does not have an Audio Communication subroutine. He cannot request non-deactivation. He cannot request return to Droid Maintenance Bay 3. He is not permitted to depart when under interrogation from organics assigned to Rebel Intelligence.

He can only sit very still, and hope the Human does not put him in the recycler.

“No cleaning droids are programmed to enter this space,” Captain says. “Have you received damage? I can repair you, if that’s the case.”

MRF-3 is not authorized to depart. He is not authorized to avoid deactivation on an organic’s prerogative. He cannot respond to verbal interrogation.

He can only wait for the unlogged days, or the nothingness of permanent deactivation.

“You don’t have a Binary subroutine, do you?” Captain’s voice patterns alter; MRF-3 does not have a database on Organic Medical data, but he does have memory logs of Programmer Freela when she has run double shifts in Maintenance Bay 3.

[“I’m worn down, Murph,” she says at these times. “Just worn to the bone.”]

[MRF-3 is always concerned by this statement. Human bones, in his memory logs, are typically on the inside and should not be visible through the chassis. Programmer Freela laughs when he reminds her of this.]

“You can’t even talk, not even to say the most basic things you need to tell me,” Captain says now, the volume of his words dropping significantly as he bows his head and rests a hand on his face. “I know how that feels,” he adds in the lowered volume.

He sounds worn down – although the status of his bones remains uncertain.

MRF-3 does not move. He can only wait to be deactivated.

“You don’t look damaged,” Captain says after 3.4 seconds [standard Galactic]. “It must be your processor. Come here, let me - ”

A large Human hand descends towards MRF-3’s chassis.

A good droid does not run away from organics. A good droid does not deny Organic Prerogative.

A good droid does not get switched off without warning or choice.

MRF-3 wants to be a good droid.

But he scoots back out of range of the Human, his processors screeching as he moves because this is an incorrect and unauthorized movement! He is violating Organic Prerogative! He is a bad droid, and he will be wiped or recycled or switched off forever [standard, Galactic]!

“Easy, easy, I’m sorry,” Captain says in a new vocal resonance, still low volume but now much more [error: unknown parameter]. It is not a voice that MRF-3 has logged before in his limited memory banks. Programmer Freela has a voice that has similar tones, but Captain does not register as a programmer.

MRF-3 halts his backwards movement, but he does not obey the command. He does not “Come here.”

He is a bad, bad droid. He will be switched off.

“I am not going to hurt you,” Captain says. “I won’t grab you either. I have a data chip with a limited Binary subroutine code. I want to check if you have available processing power to run the code, that’s all. You can use your processing hum to make the correct Binary sounds, but you need enough free space to run the program. Will you let me check?”

MRF-3 processes this. It is a lot to process.

Captain has not deactivated MRF-3. Captain has not reported MRF-3 to J4N3 as [malfunctioning: recycle requested]. Captain has not overridden MRF-3’s refusal to obey the command to “come here.”

Captain sits down on the floor and holds out his hand.

“If you don’t know,” he says, “Binary is a means for droids to talk with organics when they can’t afford to run Full Voice Database programs and still maintain enough processing power for higher order thinking. It’s shorthand for smaller droids. Your model can run Binary with a little care and effort, but you weren’t built with it. I am offering to give you that program, so I can run an assessment on you. If you are malfunctioning, I can help you.”

He stops. MRF-3 processes this extraordinary information. Binary = means of audial communication with organics.

Binary = means of requesting no further deactivation?

Request for no deactivation = violation of Organic Prerogative?

“It’s…difficult, not being able to communicate,” Captain says before MRF-3 can reach a logical conclusion. “The hell of it is, you know exactly what you wish you could say, but you have no means of…” he gestures with one hand, his face turned towards the door behind MRF-3. Facial analysis is far beyond MRF-3’s processing capability, but memory logs have seen this expression in the medical wards, usually after an organic has been involuntarily terminated and the other organics are distressed by the loss of collective processing power.

Programmer Feela called it [grief].

Captain makes a grating noise in his throat, as if one of his gears has stuck or is in need of cleaning. “I would like to add Binary subroutines to your processor, mouse droid,” he says in the original voice from MRF-3’s entry. “Would you like to be able to speak?”

He reaches up to the desk above his head and fumbles with something in the drawer, and then turns and holds out a small datachip.

MRF-3 whirs as he processes.

Binary = no more involuntary deactivation?

Binary = clarification [annoying]?

Binary = clarification [grief]?

MRF-3 moves forward. His processors whir dangerously high, distressed by the high-volume of logic chains MRF-3 runs continuously. Captain is offering a means of potential avoidance of future deactivation. Deactivation is inefficient. Captain may find MRF-3 annoying and deactive him. Risk > reward? Or reward > risk?

“Alright,” Captain says in the low volume voice. “Alright. Let me pick you up to access the chip slot on your lower chassis. It will only take a minute to upload. It won’t hurt. Hum for two seconds standard Galactic when you are ready.”

MRF-3 forces his processors to slow. The decision has been made. He spools up his internal main processor and hums. One second [standard, Galactic], two seconds [standard, Galactic].

“Alright. Here we go. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

MRF-3’s internal gyroscope chirps in alarm. He is upside down! He is forty centimeters in the air! There is a medium probability Captain will drop or disable him!

His internal processor suddenly bursts into high speed, and a series of hums fills the air. _Request: Do Not Drop Me!_

“ I won’t drop you,” Captain says in a louder tone, speaking over the frantic noises. “You’re fine, see? All done.”

MRF-3 is returned to the safety of the deck. _Captain did not drop me._

“No,” Captain says. “You are safe and sound, all six wheels on the ground.”

Wait.

Processing…

Processing…

Captain responded to MRF-3 internal logic chains.

The loud humming corresponded to his internal logic chains.

A new subroutine is running in his processor, converting logic chains to hums and whines and other sounds of varying pitch.

The hums are his logic chains.

Captain can understand his hums.

Processing…

Captain leans his elbows on his knees and looks down at MRF-3. “Doing alright, little one?”

_I can communicate!_

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” Captain says in a voice that has some tonal overlap with MRF-3’s audio logs of Programmer Freela’s laugh. “How do you feel?”

_Functioning fully within parameters!_

“Good. And your higher order logic chains are still working without processing glitches or delays?”

_Standby…_

_Y!_

“Good.” Captain leans back against the bed. “Now, what is your designation?”

_MRF-3 / Deck 3 / Forward Frames 23 – 102 / cleaning droid_

“MRF-3. Murphy?”

_Y_

“Hello, Murphy. I am designated…” he hesitates, glances down at his jacket. “Query: what designation are you reading?”

_Rank cylinder squawking: Captain / Rebel Intelligence_

“Right.” He makes the grinding noise in his throat again, and looks at the door. “I deleted out my name from the register a few years back. I…forgot I did that.” His voice turns rougher, falling to a lower register. “I’ve done a lot of things I’ve forgotten. A lot of things I wish I could.”

_Captain = request memory wipe Y/N?_

“It doesn’t work like that for organics,” Captain says. “We don’t get to choose what we remember. We don’t get to choose what haunts us,” he looks back to the door, and his facial expression changes. MRF-3 does not have a comprehensive database of Human facial recognition and analysis. He does not like the expression on Captain’s face. It brings up memory logs of Analyst Wilgar.

_Query / MRF-3 = annoying Y/N?_

Captain turns to look down at him sharply. “What?”

_Query / MRF-3 = annoying Y/N?_

“No, Murphy, you are not annoying me. I’m sorry, I’m not angry at you. I’m…I’m not angry at _her_ , either.” He drops his head into his hands, bringing his knees up. The movement makes him appear incongruously smaller in MRF-3’s scanners. “I am,” Captain says in an unreadable tone after a silence of 1.2 seconds [standard, Galactic], “so fucking angry at myself that I don’t know how to process it."

MRF-3’s processor spools into high gear for 0.5 seconds [standard, Galactic]. Processing failures due to overwhelming data is something that he understands very well. His memory logs offer up a reasonable piece of data to communicate [!!!!] to Captain.

But first, a priority query.

_Captain = deactivate MRF-3 Y/N?_

“What?” Captain lifts his head from his hands, his eyes struggling to focus on MRF-3. The droid notes this as a potentially troubling malfunction. Are Human eyes meant to leak? He logs the query for J4N3 at a later date. “Why would I deactivate you? Are you damaged enough to require an internal hardware examination or replacement?”

_Standby / processing…_

_Deactivation = Organic Prerogative_

_Annoying Organics = deactivation_

Captain sits up straighter. “Someone deactivated you against your will for _annoying_ them?”

_Y_

MRF-3 processes for 3.5 seconds [standard, Galactic], then determines that reward > risk, and submits another query.

_[annoying] = harmful to organic life and/or functionality of Priority Resource Y/N?_

“No,” Captain says in the loudest, roughest tone he has used in MRF-3’s memory logs yet. “Annoying someone is not the same as threatening them. It does not _, ever,_ give them the right to violate your autonomy, Murphy. It does not give them the right to violate your body.”

MRF-3 logs this audio file in his permanent storage, next to the audio log of Programmer Freela’s laugh. But as pleasing as the information is to his higher order logic chains, it does not fully compute. If Organic Prerogative does not override his autonomy when no danger to organic life or Priority Resources exists…

_Purpose of deactivation = ?_

“I don’t know. But they did not have the right to deactivate you unless you were a danger to yourself or others.”

_Captain = deactivate MRF-3 Y/N?_

“No. And I would like to know,” Captain leans forward again, his eyes narrowed. MRF-3 logs the expression for further review. “Who has been deactivating you simply for being _annoying_.”

MRF-3 hums. The Binary subroutine translates his turbulent logic chains into rhythmic hums and squeals, but his higher order logic chains don’t know how to organize the data streams, so his output is garbled.  _Risk of reporting organic > possibility of no further deactivation? Unknown! Organic Prerogative violations = deactivation / unlogged days in memory files / recycling. Clarify [annoying]. Clarify [grief]. Clarify [little fucking bolt bag]. Clarify_

“Grief?” Captain puts out his hand and taps MRF-3’s upper chassis. The touch is not concerning. Captain has declared unwillingness to deactivate MRF-3. “Why are you asking me about grief?”

MRF-3 processes. _Facial analysis = poor._

“I imagine it is.”

_Captain = facial expression = [grief] Y/N?_

“I am not - ” He stops abruptly. “Why are you -?” He looks at the door.

_Facial expression = current time = [grief] Y/N?_

“I…no. Or…perhaps. I don’t know if…she said she would come back,” Captain stumbles through the words. A glitch in his communication program? Or is this what Humans sound like when their processors become overwhelmed? MRF-3 is not sure what stimulus or logic chains are overwhelming Captain, but he does not wish to add to them. He remains silent (this time, it is a choice).

“She said she would come back,” Captain says, and now his communicator program is running smoothly, perhaps too smoothly, his words faster than before. “But even if she does, Murphy, I still won’t be able to – to say what she wants to hear. I still would not be able to undo the things I have done. I am not the good man she sees when she looks at me. That man is based on a few good days, when I went against everything I have ever been and did things I had never done before. I am not – I cannot – she keeps insisting that I am a _good person.”_ He says the last two words with a new tone, a harsh tone, a resonance that makes MRF-3 recall Analyst Wilgar, unlogged days in his memory bank, and for unknown reasons, the acid Programmer Freela uses to etch new circuit boards.

MRF-3 hums softly, but his logic chains are so uncertain that the Binary subroutine does not bother to translate them into sounds.

Captain stops, puts his head back in his hands. The obstruction makes it difficult to detect his words. MRF-3 increases sensitivity on his audio processors.

“She thinks I’m a good person. I don’t know how to make her believe – I can’t find the right words to tell her I’m…not.”

MRF-3 processes for 11.2 seconds [standard, Galactic]. It is an important logic chain, and he wants to take the time to make sure he has reached the correct conclusion.

_Clarify [good]_

Captain releases a rush of air from his mouth. MRF-3 logs the occurrence for further analysis. His Memory Chip flashes a warning that he is using up excessive memory for this day cycle. He deletes the warning.

“That is not an easy question, Murphy. And I am not the right person to ask.”

MRF-3 hums tunelessly, hunting through his memory logs.

He plays [Audio_log_Happy].

A gentle warbling sound fills the air. Captain’s head jerks up, looking around the room, and then back down at MRF-3. “Did you just…laugh?”

_Programmer Freela / audio log / laughter_

“Programmer Freela,” Captain repeats slowly. “I take it that is a friend of yours?”

_Clarify [friend]_

“Someone who…” he makes the unknown gesture in the air again, and looks at the door. “Cares about you. Helps you. Enjoys having you around.” His voice drops into the soft register again, nearly inaudible. “Stays.”

_Programmer Freela = friend_

“I’m glad to hear that. You must be her friend too, if you keep her laugh on file.”

_Programmer Freela = no unrequested deactivations_

_Programmer Freela = available for maintenance upon request / nonstandard times acceptable_

_Programmer Freela = relays interesting information / responds to all queries by MSE Units_

_Programmer Freela = good Y/N?_

Captain shakes his head. “I have no way of knowing that, Murphy. But judging purely by your valuation of her…yes. She sounds like a good person. Not a lot of people bother to tell droids stories, or think twice about switching them off against their will. Which you know better than me, I imagine.” Captain looks down at him and raises one hand, palm upward. “What do you think? Is she a good person to you?”

MRF-3 hums loudly _. Programmer Freela = good person_

“Good. I’m glad you have a friend.”

_Captain = no unrequested deactivations_

“No, I promise, I won’t deactivate you, Murphy. I do a lot of shit, but I don’t knock people out just for fun. Or because they annoy me.”

_Captain = available for maintenance Y/N?_

“I don’t work in the Maintenance Bays much these days, Murphy.”

MRF-3 searches his audio logs and plays a recent entry. Captain’s voice crackles from his speaker. [ _“Have you received damage? I can repair you, if that’s the case.”]_

 “I…well, yes. Alright, I said that.”

_Captain = relays interesting information Y/N?_

“Yes, I gave you the Binary routine, but, wait, Murphy, I think you might have the wrong –“

_Captain = responds to all queries from MSE Unit Y/N?_

“I know where you’re going with this, Murphy,” Captain says, hunching with his elbows on his knees again as he peers down at MRF-3. “It’s not the same thing. Your logic does not translate across platforms. I am not Programmer Freela.”

_Request?_

“Yes?”

_Captain = request change in MRF-3 schedule / removal of Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 as scheduled cleaning for MSE Units?_

“Is that where you keep getting switched off?” Captain frowns. MRF-3 knows this expression, although he does not always know the purpose behind it. “I can’t remove all cleaning droids from that space. Someone would override it in a day, anyway. But I can make some inquiries into conduct in that area. And release a reminder that no one except a qualified droid tech is authorized to deactivate any droid without evidence of imminent harm. I can also stop by there on your next scheduled work cycle. Would you download your schedule to my datapad, please?”

MRF-3 hums an affirmative (he can!) (he does!) (and _the organic understands!)_

_Captain = good person_

“One good deed does not make me a good person, Murphy.”

“But a lot of them do,” a new voice says from the doorway. MRF-3 hums sharply in surprise, and Captain twists to look at the Human who has reappeared in the doorway. It is the Sergeant Erso who exited earlier. She does not attempt to re-enter the room, but she looks from MRF-3 to Captain and back again, and then leans against the doorjamb.

“You said, after your shift,” Captain says; his voice sounds strained, so MRF-3 logs the distress and attaches it to his earlier notes concerning leaking eyes. Captain may be in need of extensive maintenance.

Sergeant Erso raises and then drops one shoulder. It is a complicated gesture. MRF-3 logs it, too.

Captain processes the Sergeant Erso’s arrival for 3.1 seconds [standard, Galactic], and then says, “This is MRF-3. He was avoiding someone who wanted to deactivate him.”

The Sergeant Erso’s face alters into an expression MRF-3 does not recognize but makes his processors spool up in concern. “Who?”

“One of the analysists in the Corva Sector watch pools, I think. I’ll take a look tomorrow, have a word with them.”

The Sergeant Erso focuses her attention on her boots, and her tone stays casual. “Why?”

Captain blinks. “Because someone is terrifying the droids by randomly shutting them off. I wouldn’t let a soldier walk around punching people out and leaving them to lie on the ground unconscious.”

“Droids aren’t the same,” the Sergeant Erso says dismissively. MRF-3 does not squeal indignantly, nor does he use his new Binary communications to correct her. Her vitals are elevating again, though her expression remains neutral. Captain’s vitals are climbing too. Organics in elevated emotional states do not like bad droids.

“You don’t believe that,” Captain says, his eyes narrow.

“No,” she straightens and plants her feet on the deck. “But lots of people do. I don’t. _You_ don’t. You see them as people. And you don’t let people get terrorized, or hurt, or _killed,”_ she jabs a finger forward at him, “if you can do something about it. And what you consider to be “something” is far beyond what most of the damn galaxy is willing to give, Cassian.”

“That doesn’t make me a good –“

_“Yes it does.”_

Her snarl is so loud and vicious that MRF-3 cannot stop the squeal of alarm, backing up towards Captain with his wheels spinning. The Sergeant Erso glances down at him briefly, her mouth twisting into a strange position similar to Captain’s earlier grief, but then it smooths back out into anger. She stares silently at Captain, who looks back for 4.7 seconds [standard, Galactic] before he takes a significant breath and drops his gaze.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” she replies, “right now. You just have to…” she makes a gesture in the air, the same one that Captain made earlier. MRF-3 logs the similarity. “You have to promise you’ll try. At least let me fucking say it without getting angry or calling yourself a force-damned murderer or whatever the hell you were trying to do.”

“I didn’t say I was a murderer, I said I was a -“

_Good person_

Both Humans turn to stare at MRF-3, who shakes a little under the scrutiny but hums again. _Captain = good person_

“Murphy,” Captain says.

“See?” The Sergeant Erso steps into the room and nods at MRF-3. “Even a droid you just met with all the processing power of a Naboo peach knows what I mean.”

_Clarify [Naboo peach]_

The Sergeant Erso looks squarely down at him. “Later, squeaker. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow when _we,_ ” she turns a significant glare at Captain, “come down to your work space to put the fear of regulations into whatever _shutta_ is shutting you down without permission. Go back to your charging station now.”

_MRF-3 = obey Erso, Jyn / Sergeant / Rebel Intelligence Y/N?_

“Yes, Murphy,” Captain says. “Please do as she says. I – _we_ will see you tomorrow.”

The Sergeant Erso moves to the side, allowing access to the open door. MRF-3 rolls towards it, then stops as a horrible possibility occurs to his processors.

“I’m not going to switch you off, either,” The Sergeant Erso says. MRF-3 turns his sensors on her face in time to see her looking at Captain even though she speaks to him. “Don’t be scared.”

_MRF-3 = bad droid Y/N?_

“No, Murphy,” Captain says kindly. “You are not a bad droid. Only a…” he stops, swallows hard, his eyes suddenly going wide. MRF-3 logs it as a possible sign of data overwhelming him again. “Only a frightened one.”

“Yeah,” the Sergeant Erso says, her voice dropping to the soft registers Captain used when MRF-3 was voiceless and frightened and a bad droid hiding in an unauthorized space. “And we can work with that. If you’ll let us.”

MRF-3 hums a tentative response. _Captain / Rebel Intelligence + Erso, Jyn / Sergeant / Rebel Intelligence = present in Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 in 1 day [standard, Galactic] Y/N?_

“We will be there, Murphy.” Captain climbs to his feet, facing the Sergeant Erso. “It will…it will be alright.”

“You’re not alone any more,” the Sergeant Erso adds, facing him back.

MRF-3 trundles out the door and into the corridor. Behind him, the door slides shut. Ahead of him, another MSE unit zips along, humming to himself as he goes. MRF-3 registers the other unit as H0P-R. It occurs to him, 2.9 seconds [standard, Galactic] after he spots H0P-R, that they are both equipped with short-range transmission antennas. The Binary program is within transmission parameters.

He found H0P-R deactivated in the Deck 3 ‘fresher yesterday. H0P-R has returned MRF-3 to Maintenance Bay 3 minimum of [9] times.

Tomorrow, MRF-3’s friends will make Analysis Space 3-55-18H-2 safe to clean.

MRF-3 lets out a loud hum, and increases wheel speed to maximum, zipping off down the hallways after H0P-R.

MRF-3 is a good droid. He is going to take care of his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part of the relationship between Cassian Andor and K2SO is how Cassian always, always treats Kay like a _person._


	41. color of kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Jyn Appreciation Squad, with a little help from @hoofgirl, who prompted me with "kindness."

“This unit is not in need of maintenance at this time,” Essie says in his buzzy voice, watching her small fingers poke and prod at his chest plate with his shiny optic lens.

Jyn frowns at him, and holds up her paintbrush admonishingly. “’S not maint-nance, Essie. ‘S art.”

“Please clarify “art,”” Essie buzzes again, because he is not a very smart droid but that’s okay. Papa says he is just as smart as he needs to be and that maybe next harvest if they make some extra credits, he will get an additional processor for Essie. Jyn’s almost sure the extra processor will be so Essie can help more with things around the farm, but she also knows that if Essie is smarter then he will play better games. So she hopes the harvest is good. But Papa also said that Essie needs new paint, and Jyn worries that if they buy new paint, then they won’t be able to buy a processor and that will be no fun at all. Plus, Essie gets really distressed when something stresses out his current processor. He makes this really high-pitched whiny noise and his chassis vibrates hard and Papa usually sighs and asks him to shut down and cool off while Papa comes up with a less complex logic chain for him to follow.

Essie in distress is also absolutely no fun at all. She doesn’t want him to not get a new processor.

And Jyn has an idea, because she is very super smart and knows what to do. It took some work, because she’s still stupidly small and the ladder was really big and hard to move, but she got it figured out and climbed all the way up to the loft where Papa and Mama store the oils and other things that stink and slosh and Jyn’s never ever supposed to eat (although it’s funny that Mama and Papa keep saying stuff like that, because who would _want_ to eat any of that stinky stuff? _Ew.)_ And she found some of those crushed up rocks that Mama says people use for pigments and she mixed them up with the oil and now she’s got…well, it’s sort of paint. She was going to make it white like Essie’s old white paint, but that’s boring and anyway the white kept turning really ugly grey, so instead she’s made pink and green and blue and honestly, she’s super pleased with how the orange came out because the others are only sorta pink and mostly blue but the orange is _Orange_ with the capital ‘O’ and everything.

Jyn really likes orange. It’s so cheerful!

“Art is pretty pictures and stuff,” Jyn tells her friend importantly, proud that she gets to teach someone else something for a change. “And you’re very pretty already but you need some new paint because of the rain. So,” she adds another flourish to the masterpiece on Essie’s chestplate. “ _Art,_ ” she announces, holding her hands out wide to showcase the beautiful swirls and colors and everything.

Essie cranes his head down to look, but his neck joint isn’t really good and his optic telescopes all the way but he can’t see. “Art,” he repeats, but she can tell from how he whirrs that he doesn’t really understand.

“Look,” Jyn says patiently, climbing down awkwardly from her stool and leaving orange and blue and pink handprints on the old metal (oops, well, Papa likes colors anyway, he probably won’t be mad). “It’s a pretty picture, and now that you’re all painted, we can get you a processor. If the harvest is good,” she adds, because that’s important. Probably.

Essie whirrs again, a little louder and higher, coming unpleasantly close to the Distress noise that makes Jyn feel worried and sad. “I am sorry, Erso, Jyn,” he says, “I cannot follow this logic train. Please input again.”

She sighs, because Essie is her friend but he can be so…so…what was that word Mama used yesterday when she was measuring the water acidity? Frustrating.

“I helped you be pretty,” she says slowly. “So Papa can buy you a new processor. Don’t worry,” she pats his right arm, leaving a smudged handprint behind. “You’ll understand better when you’ve got more processing power.” Suddenly, something great occurs to her. “Oh, wait, look here, Essie! Look!” She pulls open a drawer on Papa’s workbench (there’s only a tiny bit of paint on her hands now, so the green marks she leaves on the handles are barely noticeable, really), and rummages around a bit until she finds what she’s looking for. It’s a shiny chrome plate, she’s not entirely sure what it’s for but Papa hasn’t used it yet and anyway probably forgot it was here.

She holds it up to Essie, and beams.

Essie whirs again, his optic focusing on the distorted image in the plate, reflecting back the colorful picture on his chassis.

“Erso, Jyn,” he says after a moment, “Please clarify this image.”

She nearly drops the plate in her excitement to reach over and point out all the great stuff she put on him. “Um, so that’s our farm, and that’s the mountain back there where I fell down that one time, remember? And this is the water filters where you like to work most because you talk to the hydrator and sometimes I think you must be telling funny jokes and stuff because you seem really happy. Oh, and this, this is you, right there, you’re kind of orange but that’s okay because I like orange, and that’s me, right there, the green one, next to you because you’re my friend!”

She beams again, pleased with her work. It’s not the prettiest ever because some of the colors didn’t work out quite so good as she hoped, but it’s definitely paint, except maybe that runny bit in the mountains, but she doesn’t point that part out.

Essie whirrs.

“Do you like it?” Jyn holds her breath, because if Essie doesn’t like it, she will have to figure out how to wash it off and that would be sad and also she’s not really sure, well, _how._

“This image has been created for me,” Essie says, his voicebox a little slower than normal.

“Yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “All for you. So you can get a new processor. And ‘cause it’s pretty.”

“Pretty,” Essie repeats. A long pause, a lot of whirring, and Jyn starts to get nervous again because the whirring is very high and that means Essie is Distressed.

And then the noise slows and drops, and with the firmness that Essie usually only displays when discussing filter ratios with Papa, her friend says, “I am very pretty.”

Jyn is so delighted that she drops the chrome plate with a crash and claps her hands (some paint flies up and spackles her face, oops, guess it was a little wet still). “Yes,” she agrees. “The prettiest droid ever, Essie.”

“Jyn,” says Papa from the door, “What _are_ you doing?”

Jyn spins around and grins at him. “Papa! Look! I painted Essie for you so we will have enough for a processor!”

Papa looks over her head with a very funny look on his face. Jyn figures it must be that thing Mama told her about, when they learned about art. People can be moved by art, she said. Papa isn’t moving, but Mama said it’s not that kind of moved, but more like…they get big feelings from it. Jyn’s not sure what Papa’s feeling right now, but his mouth is crimped tight and his face is turning a little red and his eyes are dancing, so she’s guessing whatever it is, it’s a pretty big feeling.

“Hello, Erso, Galen,” Essie says in his careful, slow way. “I am the prettiest droid.”

“So I see, Essie,” Papa agrees, also speaking in a careful, slow way, although that’s funny because he’s not slow like Essie, normally. Maybe it’s the big art feeling. “Did Mama tell you we were buying Essie a new processor?”

“If we didn’t have to paint Essie,” she tells him, although she’s a little uncertain now because she can’t remember if that was precisely what Mama said, now that she’s thinking about it.

“Well,” Papa says, and his face is just a little bit redder as he watches Essie lean over the chrome plate on the floor and admire his pretty picture that Jyn made just for him. “That is,” he clears his throat. “That was very kind of you, Stardust.”

Jyn beams.

“Why don’t you…go get Mama,” Papa adds, though his voice is a little muffled by his hand, which is rubbing over his beard really hard.

She perks up, because Papa is being weird but Mama will probably be able to explain it. “You think she’ll like it?”

“Oh,” Papa nods, hard, “I think she will love it.”

“Erso, Lyra enjoys aesthetically pleasing images,” Essie says wisely. “And I am the prettiest droid.”

“You sure are!” Jyn shouts over her shoulder as she bolts for the house, thrilled at the good reactions she’s gotten. Turns out that helping people is a lot of work, but it’s pretty great, in the long run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Essie](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Essie) was an [SE-2 worker droid](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/SE-2_worker_droid) owned by the Erso family on Lah'mu. His wiki makes a point of saying "Despite being a menial labor droid, Essie had a very pronounced loyalty subroutine." Sadly, I suppose he was probably destroyed when the Erso farm was invaded and burned to the ground.


	42. sensory headcanons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually wrote these ages ago on tumblr, and then forgot to post them. Not really a _story_ so much as a series of small character studies.

** Cassian: **

1. **Hearing:** Cassian Andor is largely indifferent to music, although this may be due to his limited exposure to it. Popular music is largely dependent on the region of space you are in (and the species/culture/politics that dominate that region), and he has traveled so much throughout his entire life that he has heard a million songs and can remember almost none of them. 

2\. **Sight** : Cassian relies heavily on his sense of sight; even at his most relaxed, he is constantly scanning the environment around him, checking for exits, marking crowd movements, evaluating the micro-expressions of the people around him. Even when he’s alone (or with Kay only) in his ship in hyperspace with nothing particular to watch, he is constantly scanning the instruments on the flight console, reading over his research/reports, etc. Alliance regulations require annual physicals (when the doctors are available, which is…not as often as everyone pretends), but Cassian voluntarily gets bi-annual eye-exams. It is highly likely that he has had laser-eye surgery at some point, to both alter his iris patterns to fool ID confirming eye-scanners and correct his vision to 20/15 or better.

3\. **Smell** : Despite his best efforts not to dwell on his past, Cassian is one of those people who creates strong sense-memories associated with smell. Often, he will catch a faint whiff of a certain spice, or a flower, perhaps, and the memory he has connected to that smell will temporarily overwhelm his entire attention. Fortunately, he usually can compartmentalize and return his focus to where it needs to be without more than a blink, because his survival and his cause demand it. Every now and again, however, he catches the faint scent of snow and timber smoke, which throws him so sharply back to his childhood home that he has to close his eyes and breathe in, breathe out, just breathe.

4\. **Taste** : Part of what makes him such a good cook is his careful attention to the blend of flavors and textures in the food he makes. Cassian does not just slap together whatever ingredients he has to make something nutritious (well, alright, he does, but that’s on days where he barely has the time or energy to even eat at all, so he just takes what he can get). When he has the time, and the ingredients, and the exhaustion that hangs around his neck is perhaps a little lighter, a little more forgiving, he enjoys experimenting with different combinations of sweet or savory or tangy, sifting through his personal spice collection (little things he picks up, or that others gift him from around the galaxy) and touching the tips of his fingers to his tongue, imagining what he can do with a pinch of this, a hint of that.

5\. **Touch:**  Cassian is touch starved, and he knows it. How could he be anything but, when the last family member he had died when he was six, when the people who surround him are either desperate rebels on the run, or enemies he must fool. He has gone months without a handshake, years without…anything more than a handshake. People don’t pat him on the back, because he is not around the rebels enough to make those kinds of friends (or they die), and among Imperials a back pat is considered a threat. Every hug he’s had since he was 6 was always about manipulation, or just a blatant lie. He tries not to think about it, mostly succeeds, until someone touches his arm or brushes past him in the hall and all his nerves light up, and he calculates it has been 3 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days since anyone touched him - and then shakes himself and gets back to work.

** Jyn: **

**Hearing** : Jyn loves music, although she was not exposed to much of it until after she was 16, on her own and fighting tooth and nail through the galaxy for her survival. She had _heard_ music, of course, always in snippets and through walls, spilling out of open doorways or from some street performer as she hurried by. But then, one ugly, lonely, hungry night in the rundown homeless shelter where she takes shelter from the bitter cold, about three or four months after Saw dumped her in the dark, someone gets the ancient donated music player working. All it plays is instrumental music orchestral mixes and various old operatic tunes. But Jyn huddles in the corner and watches the way tense faces relax, sees worried lines in wearied faces ease, dirty fingers and worn shoes tapping in time, and for a moment she feels something like warmth, something like safety. Later, she decides that this is what people mean when they use the word “beauty.”

2\. **Sight** : Jyn doesn’t trust appearances, is indifferent to her own, and doesn’t care much what anyone thinks about them in general. She’s aware that they can affect people’s perceptions (being dirty or dressed in cheap clothes makes her less likely to be hired, “pretty” people can get away with things that “ugly” people can’t, etc). The problem is that she has traveled to so many places, where the standards of physical attractiveness are so wildly different, that she can’t keep up and frankly doesn’t care.

3\. **Smell** : Jyn’s sense of smell is sharp but uncultivated. She doesn’t pay much attention to it, and doesn’t have the words to describe what she’s smelling beyond the acrid stink of grenade smoke or the burning of blaster bolts…but if asked by someone who mattered, someone she cared about, she might admit that she finds the combined scent of water and sand to be oddly soothing.

4\. **Taste:** Jyn doesn’t think much about the taste of food (it’s honestly better that way, considering what she’s had to eat). She does, however, have a bit of a…thing for, uh, touching her mouth. Not that she’s had a lot of partners she would admit this to, or like she’s had a lot of time to explore her preferences. But when she’s distracted or daydreaming, she has a tendency to touch her lips, and her more intense dreams often involve kissing, licking, or sucking. Interestingly, she doesn’t like extremely spicy foods or tastes, possibly because her mouth is very sensitive to it.

5\. **Touch** : Jyn is touch starved, but she’s never heard the term and doesn’t know that going years without any non-violent contact is not normal. Shaking hands isn’t really done much in the criminal world (violates too many cultural mores and anyway requires too much trust), attempting a back pat or a shoulder rub will lose you a hand, and Jyn hasn’t had a real hug since she was 8. For her, touch starvation manifests as a tight, restless feeling in her skin that often crawls across her at strange times. When it comes upon her, she tends to prowl around, looking for a fight or a task or _something,_ until the day she at last finds an alternative means of soothing that scraping, raw feeling in her body.

**Jyn/Cassian :**

**Hearing** : The first time Jyn really noticed Cassian Andor’s voice (aside from his accent and the sharp edges of his questions) was on Jedha, when he leaned down close enough to be heard over the cacophony of the crowd and said _rebellions are built on hope_  into her ear. She wanted to laugh at the words, but the quiet intensity in his voice instead made her stomach muscles drawn tight and a little shiver run down her spine. On Eadu, the harshness in his typically much more melodic voice first alerted her to the treachery she was already half-expecting, half-hoping not to find. In the hangar of Yavin IV, his voice is gentle and warm under the roar of X Wings and the sudden thudding of her heart. But it isn’t until Scarif, when he smiles and says _your father would be proud of you, Jyn_ like he’s reminding her of the words of a long forgotten but still favorite song - only then does Jyn understand that sometimes the best music in the world isn’t a song at all.

**Sight** : Sometimes, in an attempt to quiet his restless mind, Cassian likes to watch the flowing starlight of hyperspace flashing by the viewport. If he’s planet-side, he’s more than once found himself staring into open flames, or rushing water. Recently, he’s discovered that some small part of his mind reacts the same way to watching Jyn fight (but only a small part, since the rest of him is usually _very concerned_ about other things, like shot trajectories and escape routes and the dark spot of blood on her clothes that he desperately hopes isn’t hers). There is something so fluid in her movements, despite the brutality of them, which simultaneously soothes the restive urgency of his thoughts and sets his blood rushing through his veins. Cassian is not a violent man, but the sight of Jyn dancing through a battlefield is one of the most compelling things he’s ever seen.

**Smell** : It’s much more efficient (and economical) to share basic supplies, like blaster cleaner and leather oil and sometimes even basic amenities like soap and mouthwash. It shouldn’t be a big deal, it _isn’t_ a big deal, so when Jyn has to squeeze past him in the cockpit and Cassian catches the scent of his soap on her skin, he doesn’t lick his lips reflexively and hold his breath until she passes. (He does, but it’s...unrelated. Incidental.) When Jyn wakes up on the floor of the shuttle on the way back to base to find Cassian’s coat and the familiar scent of leather oil wrapped around her, she does not close her eyes tight and inhale deeply before she sits up and hands it back. (She does, but that’s just...getting her bearings. Waking up.) 

**Taste** : Jyn’s never cared much about the taste of her food...until Cassian smiles and hands her a dish he made (hot, savory rolled meat and breads with spices she can’t name but make her eyes widen and her mouth water) and asks, “How about this one?” She winds up polishing the plate clean. The second time he cooks for her (a sweeter dish with fruits and some kind of fish that flakes in her mouth and melts on her tongue) she considers kissing him on the spot. The third time (a thick, meaty stew that fills her belly and warms her chilled body like a blanket), she jokingly accuses him of trying to seduce her. The fourth time (the savory rolls again, now familiar and comforting in an entirely different way), he admits that he is.

**Touch** : They are both touch starved, and when they are together they can't ignore it. At first their touch is tentative and careful, both fearing to push too far past a line neither can see; a careful brush of fingers when handing over datapads, the gentle press of shoulders to offer comfort, a soft uncertain smile as one or the other brushes away a strand of hair or tucks in an extra ammo pack. Later, when they are more comfortable, it becomes a hand on the small of each other’s back, a head resting on a shoulder, slumping together to catch a brief moment of sleep. And when eventually the last barriers are gone and they are as familiar with each other’s bodies as their own - even then they are rarely together that one or the other does not reach out and run a hand across the other’s back, or they sit together with shoulders and thighs brushing. Cassian slides his hands through Jyn’s hair and reflects that he never knew he was so tactile; Jyn kneads her fingers into the back of his neck and feels the restless scratch of loneliness settle in her skin.

 


	43. continuation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also another thing I posted on tumblr a long time ago and then forgot about. This one is a continuation of a round-robin/group written story. Well, it's part of one variation of that story, because of course everyone grabs on to different parts of the story to start writing. The version I'm following is [here.](http://brynnmclean.tumblr.com/post/172429729994/sleepykalena-mnemehoshiko-headcanon-that) I followed @sleepykalena's and then @brynnmclean's version. The gist of the story is: Cassian let Jyn keep his blaster after Scarif because he loves her, and there are certain Fest traditions that would allow her to interpret his gesture as a declaration. He figures she'll never know about them. And then K2SO, to facilitate better communication and teamwork, gives Jyn a datachip of Festian customs. 
> 
> And here we are:

Bodhi was waiting when Cassian disembarked, his jacket slung over his arm as he walked from the cool recycled air of the ship to the blistering heat of the rebellion’s newest hiding spot. Cassian smiled at his friend, thumped his back, and tried not to be too obvious about scanning the bustling hangar over his shoulder.

“She’s running a training session,” Bodhi said as soon as they stepped back. 

Cassian sighed, and let the (clearly pointless) neutrality drop from his face. “In this heat?” he grimaced, shifting his pack on his already sweating back. Apatros was an old Republic planet in the Outer Rim, where a once-mighty company had mined for valuable minerals until they, like everything else on this dustball, ran dry. Cassian tried not to think too hard about the rebellion burrowing down in the old mine shafts where slaves once lived and toiled and died by the thousands. The pitted reddish stone that made up the walls, ceilings, and floors didn’t help much, calling to mind old blood stains. Or at least, that’s what it made Cassian think of. Jyn said that with all the people and ships constantly streaming through the narrow tunnels, it felt more like being a blood vessel in a giant beating heart.

“She’s running the, um, the trainees through an obstacle course that Kay-two helped her set up,” Bodhi told him, dodging easily through the chaos of the hangar, the largest carved-out space in the mine network the Alliance had claimed as a temporary home. Considering this base had only been set up for about a month (considering that he had only been a rebel for about three), Bodhi moved with a surety through the crowd that Cassian watched with approval – and a little relief. He’d done what he could to help Bodhi find his place within the Alliance, but ‘helping friends’ was not a skill set that Cassian Andor had spent a lot of time developing. There hadn’t exactly been a need, before.

Cassian shifted his pack again and tried to pull his shirt away from his skin before he soaked it through and considered that a lot of things in his life had changed, after Scarif - and he didn’t just mean the war. Ahead of him, Bodhi turned to wave cheerfully in response to another pilot’s friendly call, and Cassian caught sight of a line of tight but slightly uneven stitches down the side of Bodhi’s flight suit under his arm that looked like Jyn’s handiwork. There was a similar line of stitching on the inside of Cassian’s parka, where Jyn had found a small rip – she thought it was from Jedha, but Cassian secretly thought it was more likely from Eadu – and she had fixed it while he was still unconscious, having his spine reconstructed. He’d woken to find her wrapped in the mended parka in the clinical cold of Home I’s medical bay, and even in the oppressive heat of Apatros, Cassian felt a small surge of warmth in his gut at the memory.

And then his brain caught up to the conversation, and he stretched his steps to catch up to Bodhi again. “Kay helped her? When did Kay start helping Jyn with training recruits?” He paused, frowned. “Since when did she _let_ him?”

Bodhi grinned at him, and shrugged. “Not sure. He was pretty, pretty bored while you were, you know, gone, and Jyn says he was pestering the mechanics so, so she was just doing them a favor, but between you and me,” he stepped a little closer and lowered his voice, raising a hand to partially cover his mouth. Cassian immediately tensed and glanced around for listeners, well-trained instincts kicking in at Bodhi’s secretive behavior. “I think it’s because of, um, because of that datachip Kay-two gave her.”

To his mild shame, Cassian’s first thought was _Kay is handing out classified data,_ followed by a quick mental rundown of all the potential malfunctions that could corrupt his friend's logic functions and the containment procedures Cassian would have to invoke. His second (slightly less shameful but significantly more confusing) thought was _but it’s Jyn_. As if that made it alright.

…did it?

Before Cassian could come to grips with that question, Bodhi stopped suddenly and grinned. “Heads up!” He called to the corridor at large and stepped to the side, gesturing for Cassian to follow him. The sound of multiple boots pounding on stone thundered up from one of the nearby corridors, and the hangar crowd quickly scattered out of the way as roughly two dozen soldiers came barreling out into the space as if Death itself was chasing them. They were all stripped down to trousers, tank tops, and boots, each carrying a heavy pack and at least two canteens slipped to their belts, and they were drenched and panting as they bolted by in a herd. Cassian raised an eyebrow, and then had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing as he saw what they were running from.

She was dressed the same as the trainees, but carried no pack, only her truncheon strapped to one leg and canteen on her belt. Sweat glistened on her skin and stuck her hair to her face, which was set in a focused expression that reminded Cassian vaguely of lothal tigers on the hunt. She ran swift and light through the hangar after the trainees, but he could tell she was holding back, letting them stay ahead. Although not too far ahead - the trainee at the back of the pack glanced back, saw her only a few lengths behind, and immediately put in a burst of speed that put him firmly in the middle of the pack. Cassian glimpsed a large red mark on his face roughly in the shape of a small Human handprint around his wide eye. Jyn darted to the side and suddenly vanished around a pile of crates. A ripple of laughter went around the hangar as the trainees immediately slowed and huddled together like banthas, panting and scanning through the hangar.

“Having fun, Chicri?” A mechanic called out, “Not scared of the little Human, are you?”

One of the Cerean trainees made an obscene gesture, her back pressed to her fellows, her fists raised defensively as she watched.

“This is day five,” Bodhi told Cassian casually, though he could detect a note of pride in Bodhi’s tone. Jyn was not an inherently friendly person, and Cassian knew that Bodhi worried about her (worried about them both, really). Cassian supposed that the wary respect of the foot soldiers was what Bodhi considered “a positive step” for Jyn. “She drives them through here, the hangar I mean, every time, and, and she always pins at least one of them.” He shook his head, swiping at the sweat on his own face (it was hot in the base, Cassian reassured himself. No one would imagine that he was flushed for any other reason than that), “The objective is they reach, reach the end of the hour without any of them getting pinned, but she, uh, she does it every time.”

“They pass or fail as a group,” Cassian murmured, hearing the little twinge of pride in his own voice and not bothering to hide it.

Someone dropped a crate with a loud crash, and the recruits whirled together to stare at it (“Sorry,” one of the X-wing mechanics laughed), and Cassian saw K2SO loom suddenly out from behind an A-Wing roughly a second before the nearest trainee did. The trainee spun around, shouting for the others, but it was too late. Kay picked him up by the tank top and tossed him gently back down. The recruit hit the floor with a thud and a grunt, and K2SO watched impassively as the Cerean vaulted over her teammate to try and tackle the droid head on.

Jyn dropped on her like a brick, launching herself off of the fighter-craft’s outstretched wing and landing directly on the trainee’s broad shoulders. The woman went down with an undignified squawk, and Cassian suppressed a smile as he watched Jyn neatly pin the trainee beneath her knee and then coolly look over her shoulder at the others. The herd stopped dead in it’s tracks, none of the recruits willing to get too close, and Jyn’s mouth split into a sharp, amused, _challenging_ grin. Cassian cleared his throat and swiped at his face again. Apatros, he thought vaguely. Far too hot for a base.

“Once again,” Kay’s voice rang out through the hangar, over the good-natured laughter of the hangar crew and the un-subtle exchanging of credit chips here and there, “you have failed to grasp the central objective of the exercise.”

The Cerean cussed loudly under Jyn’s knee, and the rest of the trainees shuffled awkwardly, no one quite looking at Kay directly, most of them warily eyeing Jyn. Bodhi sighed, and Cassian kept his face neutral but took careful note of which trainees were simply watching Jyn as if bracing for an attack and which were only making a point of ignoring the droid.

“Thank you for your help, Kay,” Jyn said in a chilly tone, the grin wiped from her face. “You were invaluable. Mald!” She snapped suddenly, and the recruit who Kay had thrown pushed through the crowd face her. “Why are you limping?”

To his credit, the trainee snapped to admirable attention, his spine straight and his face relatively controlled despite his flushed skin and panting breaths. “Because there’s a karking bruise the size of a Star Destroyer on my arse, Sergeant!”

Jyn swept the rest of the recruits with her cold stare, waiting pointedly until the rest of them fell into some semblance of order around Mald. She stayed on her knee, however, the Cerean still pinned tight to the hangar floor. From the way the recruit pressed her cheek to the stone and sucked in shaking breaths, she was probably grateful for the chance to rest a bit, Cassian guessed. “And why,” Jyn asked as the trainees struggled to get their breathing under control and Kay clumped through the hangar towards Cassian and Bodhi, “is that?”

Mald winced. “Ran into your droid, Sergeant!”

“It’s not fair,” a scrawny young Human called from the back of the group, “siccing an Imp droid on us.”

“Ho boy,” Bodhi muttered, and Cassian raised an eyebrow.

Jyn was very still for a long minute, and then she slowly, delicately, tilted her head to the side. “Fair,” she said quietly. The group of watching mechanics leaning idly against a nearby X-Wing suddenly had something extremely important to do on the other side of the fighter craft. An astromech rolling past whistled loudly and kicked into a higher speed to trundle away from the trainees.

“Fair,” Jyn said again, and then she shot off the pinned recruit so fast that Cassian almost couldn’t follow the movement. She was just suddenly in the midst of the recruits, her fists flying. She dropped and swept a leg, knocking at least three to the ground, she was up and body slamming an Imzig into an uncontrolled spin. She rolled, she ducked, she lashed out, and less than a minute later, every recruit was sprawled on the hangar ground, groaning and scrambling to get clear. Jyn stood in the center and said, in a clear, almost gentle voice, “ _Nothing in this war will ever be fair_.” Then she reached down and plucked the scrawny Human who had whined from the pile, hauling him up by his sweaty tank top and setting him on his unsteady feet. “So learn to stick together, Flo’hiric,” she said tightly, “or we will _all_ fall.”

She let the boy stagger back, and then strode calmly away. “Training room seven-eight-alpha tomorrow,” she called back. “Zero-five hundred sharp.” She paused, glanced back over her shoulder. “Bring spare socks.”

“You have returned unharmed, Cassian,” Kay said as he reached Cassian and Bodhi’s side. “The likelihood that you would be harmed without backup was unacceptably high.” Kay sounded unruffled by this information, but Cassian knew him well enough to know that if Kay really didn’t give a damn, he wouldn’t bother to mention the odds at all. “However, the odds that you would at least return was within acceptable parameters.”

“I missed you, too, Kay” Cassian said, glancing around Kay’s bulk to watch Jyn stalk across the hangar. Her tank top, he realized abruptly, was soaked almost through, outlining the edges of her heavy combat bra and the dip of her naval. As he watched, a drop of sweat trickled down her neck and vanished over the back of her shoulder.

“Hey, Kay-two,” Bodhi said cheerfully. “I was just, um, just telling Cassian how you’ve been helping Jyn.”

_Right._ Cassian’s slightly fuzzy thoughts snapped into clearer focus. “And not just with training recruits, I hear,” he said, letting his pack drop to rest at his feet and leaning casually against the wall. The stone was, to his surprise, relatively cool against his overwarm back. No wonder the Cerean had practically been nuzzling the floor when Jyn pinned her.

Kay’s optics telescoped on Cassian’s face, then he hunched slightly, the way he did when he was trying to make himself look less imposing and more relatable to organics. It was also the way he stood when he was working out whether or not this was a situation that called for deception. “Yes,” he said carefully. “I have been helping Jyn.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed, and Kay’s optics flickered blue for a brief moment. An infrared scan, checking to make sure Cassian wasn’t showing signs of real anger. When he registered that Cassian’s heartrate was normal and his temperature – well, was not normal, but at least within parameters satisfactory for Apatros’ climate, his optics flicked white again, but he stayed in his _I am relating to the organics_ hunker.  “I am very helpful,” he said in the same careful tone.

“Uh, everything okay?” Bodhi shifted his weight and scratched nervously at the derma on his mechanical hand.

“It’s fine,” Cassian said, although he kept his eyes on Kay. He moved to fold his arms across his chest, but it was far too hot, so he rested his hands on his belt instead. He kept his voice light, non-accusatory, merely curious. Even if it was classified data, there was a good chance Jyn had just destroyed it and read Kay the riot act herself. Or that it had been something she needed – he felt a sudden spike of fear that Kay might have given her Cassian’s operational files. He’d been planning on giving her that himself, it was only fair that she understood what he had done for the rebellion, what he had given, what he _was_ …well, what kind of man he was. But later. Later, when he was ready to deal with her reaction to it, when he was strong enough to handle it. If Kay had already given it to her, and she’d read it, then perhaps that was why she had just walked out of the hangar instead of coming over and greeting –

“She seemed to appreciate your help,” he cut off his own thoughts before they could spiral somewhere dark, nodding to the slowly dispersing recruits in the hangar.

Kay’s eyes telescoped again, and then he said abruptly, “You are not angry.”

“No, Kay,” Cassian reassured him quietly, ignoring the confused look on Bodhi’s face. “Jyn has the same clearance as I do, now. And I know that you used proper protocol with the datachip.”

“Datachip?” Bodhi jumped, and then, to Cassian’s astonishment and mounting confusion, he started to laugh. “You’re, um, you’re worried about the datachip?”

“I provided Jyn Erso with useful information intended to increase her operational functionality in our unit,” Kay said, straightening up and taking on a decidedly offended posture. “It was _not_ classified.”

“Oh,” Cassian looked from Kay’s indignant body language to Bodhi’s red face. “Good.”

“You should,” Bodhi gasped, making a weak effort to control himself, “You should, um, ask her what was on it,” he said, then he burst into another round of wheezing laughter. Cassian frowned at the tears leaking from Bodhi’s eyes; clearly the heat had gotten to him after all.

“You should hydrate,” he told Bodhi firmly, and then pushed off from the wall. “Come on, Kay. You can explain it to me on the way to my quarters if you think it’s important.”

“No, no,” Bodhi flapped a hand at him but did not follow as Cassian scooped up his back and strode away. “You should _definitely_ ask Jyn.”

“I’ll see you at meal, Bodhi,” Cassian said, waving over his shoulder as Kay fell in beside him.

“I calculated that Jyn’s efficiency within our newly formed unit would increase by approximately seventy-five percent,” Kay informed him, sounding less peeved and more righteous now. “If she were provided with vital contextual information regarding her teammates.”

_Teammates_ , Cassian thought, that warm sensation back in his gut that probably didn’t really have anything to do with Apatros’ desert heat. “Alright, Kay,” he sighed, ignoring the drop of sweat tracing slowly down his spine (absolutely not thinking about the gleam on Jyn’s bare shoulders or the way her shirt had clung to her body). “I’m sorry to doubt your integrity.”

“Your uncertainty is understandable,” Kay said grudgingly. “You also clearly lack the appropriate cultural background information necessary for cohesion.”

Cassian nodded, not entirely sure what that was supposed to mean but deciding that it likely wasn’t anything he would need to mark as a security breach. Kay wasn’t malfunctioning, that was clear, and if he was building a rapport with Jyn, well…Cassian could understand the happiness in Bodhi’s voice earlier when they watched Jyn awing the recruits (and no few of the hangar crew, he’d noticed). There was something viscerally satisfying in seeing your friends succeed, and something just as pleasing in knowing that they were coming together around you. Cassian had seen the notes in his psych profile: “recommended that this operative be encouraged to develop a support network.” But he had always made a point of ignoring that line, because he had never believed it was even possible.

And now, apparently, it was.

Kay’s chassis whirred quietly next to him as he walked, and Cassian mentally set aside any concerns that his friend had done something dangerous and allowed himself to think longingly of the shower he was starting to really need. Afterwards, he could go looking for Jyn, and maybe find out why she hadn’t come over to say hello when her training was over. Assuming she wasn’t in the shower still, herself –

“I am having some difficulty,” Kay said, and Cassian immediately turned to look up at him, grateful for the interruption of his own wildly inappropriate and distracting train of thought, _Force sake, Andor, you are in public and also a grown man, not a hormonal adolescent_.

He cleared his throat hastily. “With what?”

“I have downloaded the courtship and bonding rituals of Vallt, Lah’mu, and Coruscant,” Kay told him gravely, “But I am uncertain which of these cultures is most relevant to Jyn.”

Cassian came to a dead stop, causing a Twi’lek who had been following behind them to curse and veer around them, shooting Cassian a dirty look as he passed. “What?”

“Given her tumultuous childhood and unconventional upbringing,” Kay explained, looking down at Cassian with a slight tilt to his cranial. “I am uncertain which of Jyn Erso’s cultures would be most applicable to you.”

“Applicable to –“ Cassian stepped to the side of the hallway to let a pair of harassed looking mechanics bustle by, and lowered his voice. “Why would her courtship – “ He shook his head. “Kay, what are you talking about?”

“You are from Fest,” Kay replied. “The probability that Jyn Erso has any prior knowledge of Festian courtship customs was extremely low, so I provided –“

Cassian held up a hand, cutting him off. A gaggle of pilots came striding around the corner, laughing and joking with one another, and Cassian gestured sharply to Kay, hustling him into an unsecured briefing space a few steps down the hall and locking the door behind them both. “Kay,” he dropped his voice and swept the room automatically for bugs or security cameras. “What was on the datachip you gave Jyn?”

Kay’s eyes flickered blue again, and then back to white. “Your heart rate and temperature are elevated beyond Apatros parameters,” he announced. “My integrity has not changed in the last five minutes.”

“Kay,” Cassian grit his teeth. “Please.”

“I gave Jyn data pertinent to Fest courtship traditions and rituals to reduce friction between you,” Kay told him. “And now I am attempting to provide you with similar useful intel regarding her own intimacy-related background. I calculate that this will create a minimum of sixty-three percent increase in efficiency on missions once you have adjusted to fit each other’s cultural expectations and personal needs.”

Cassian stared at him, because there was… a lot to unpack in that reasoning. “Kay,” he said weakly through a suddenly dry mouth, “we need to work on your phrasing.”

“My linguistic algorithms are perfectly functional,” Kay huffed, but Cassian was no longer listening, leaning back against the briefing room table and rubbing a sleeve over his flushed face. No wonder she hadn’t come over. She probably had no idea what to even say to him. Cassian’s throat tightened as he realized that she probably had discovered the old Festian tradition of twice-given gifts.

A series of half-formed curses in both Basic and Festian swam through his mind, and Cassian closed his eyes. What would he even say to _her,_ when he met up with her next? _Hello, Jyn, I’m back, and I hear Kay told you that when a Festian man gives a woman the same gift twice, he’s usually hinting that he wants her to propose, and I would promise that I wasn’t really thinking about it when I told you to keep my blaster, except I might actually be lying to myself on that one and by the way, I saw you sweaty and beautiful in the hangar earlier and a part of me really, really wanted to kiss you. How have you been?_

“You are still agitated,” Kay said. “I recommend hydration and deep breaths.”

“Thank you, Kay,” Cassian tried not to snap and didn’t quite manage it. “But right now I need –“ he shook his head. “Let’s just go,” he sighed, struggling to get his heart rate under control and his face back into neutral. “I need a shower.”

Kay stepped to the side and allowed Cassian to unlock the door without comment. The door slid open and Cassian took a step forward before his brain registered what he was seeing, so he came just a hair shy of walking directly into Jyn. Cassian’s heart stuttered in his chest, and he inhaled so sharply it was almost a gasp.

“One of the pilots saw you duck in here,” she said quietly, seeing the surprise frozen on his face. She had somehow already washed, wearing a fresh tank top and with her damp hair pulled slightly neater back from her face. The kyber crystal she always wore hung against her collarbone, catching the light of the hallway and fracturing it into tiny golden arcs of light on her skin. Cassian clenched his fist around his pack’s strap and locked down the impulse to reach out and touch one of those tiny flickers of light. Her eyes skimmed over his shoulder to look at Kay, then away again so fast that Cassian knew with a sinking feeling in his stomach that she had seen the datachip.

“Hello Jyn,” Kay said stiffly. “Cassian needs a shower.”

Jyn’s eyes widened and she swallowed, and Cassian thought with some asperity that whoever had recommended this blistering dustball for rebel headquarters deserved to be shot into space and left for the Empire. His face burned, and the rest of his skin felt flushed and practically slimy from the heat. “Right,” she said slowly. “Guess we can…catch up afterwards.” She shifted her weight and glanced up at his face, and then seemed to shake herself. She raised her head and met his eyes, and a part of Cassian noticed with interest that she looked significantly more red than she had a moment ago. “Just wanted to welcome you home, anyway.”

The words caught and echoed in his head, and Cassian felt some of the uncertain tension in his shoulders relax. “Thank you, Jyn,” he smiled down at her, gratified when some of the wariness in her eyes smoothed over and her mouth curved into a small answering smile. “Give me about twenty minutes, then we’ll grab some food from the galley?”

She nodded, and they both realized a beat later that they were standing too close together in the doorway for him to get around her. Jyn shuffled back, her face turning pink again, and gestured for him to pass.

Cassian hesitated, some half-formed question about the datachip Kay had given her on his tongue, but his sense of self-preservation knocked it away at the last moment. He brushed past her, trying and failing not to notice how close they were for those few fragile moments, and then jerked his head to Kay. “See you in twenty,” he said to Jyn, determinedly headed down the hall again, trying only to think of the loud clanking of Kay’s heavy metal feet and the debrief he would have to prepare for this evening.

“Cassian,” Jyn called after him, and he paused and looked back.

Her face was definitely too pink now to just be the heat, but she lifted her chin and said in an even voice, “Thanks again for the blaster.”

Then she flashed him a grin, sharp, amused, _challenging_ , and Cassian could only stare after her, poleaxed, as she turned on her heel and marched away.

Kay looked from Cassian’s stunned face to Jyn’s straight back, and then said in a decisive voice, “I have now adjusted my calculations. I anticipate a sixty-nine percent increase in efficiency on future missions.”

“Kay,” Cassian said distantly, watching Jyn vanish around the far corner and trying hard to hear anything around the pounding of his heart in his ears. “We _really_ need to work on your phrasing.”


	44. sometimes you hear the bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this one awhile ago when a former squadron mate and friend of mine crashed and died off Key West. Had to get it out of my system. Recording it here so it's easier for me to find in the future, should I ever come looking.

Sometimes it happens like this: a rushed, crazy battle, people shouting and blasters firing, and when Jyn turns to look, one of her people across the field (twenty steps and a thousand lightyears away) jerks and drops, and she dives to grab them but it’s too late, too late, and there’s nothing left but to get the rest out, get out and get home and tell the loved ones they have been left behind.

Sometimes it happens like this: a crackle on the radio, a tense voice calling for backup, calling for information, calling for help; Cassian’s fingers ache to press down on his own comm and offer aid, offer advice, offer reassurance, but he can’t give any of those things, either he’s too far away or he’s still undercover or there’s just nothing he can do that would be remotely helpful - and then there is a loud burst of static and the calm voice of the computer, “Signal lost. Reconnect?”

Sometimes it happens like this: Jyn has only just slid into the space at his side, her own plate not as full as he thinks it ought to be, but before he can open his mouth and start the old argument again, a tired-looking lieutenant walks up with a file in one hand. Even from this bad angle, Cassian can see the red letters stamped across the top, the letters that mean this file is now closed, headed for the archive. _I’m sorry_ , the lieutenant says, _but I heard you were friends. Thought you ought to know._

Sometimes it even happens like this: Jyn slaps the door open impatiently, tired and still dirty from her last op; she just needs to drop off this messed up jacket to the repair shop and then she’s off for a shower and the longest nap she can manage. Her favorite yeoman is sitting with her head down on the desk, and Jyn stops short for several seconds before she clears her throat. _He’s dead_ , comes the response, oddly calm, _died last week in that dust up over Llanic, I only just found out._

It happens over and over, hundreds, maybe thousands of times, to thousands of rebels. _Somehow,_ Cassian says quietly into her shoulder, _it’s never quite the same story_. _Somehow_ , Jyn replies softly with her hand stroking through his hair, _it’s still always a surprise_. That’s all they say about it, because that’s all they can say, all they are willing to bring into the small, safe place they’ve made together. They keep the list of people they watch out for updated, and silently promise themselves that it will never happen to one of _them_. Jyn’s never going to watch him fall across the field and then get out, get home, because there is no home without him in it. Cassian’s never going to hear her voice cut off by that burst of static because he’s going to be wherever she is when the static happens. It’s probably unhealthy, but she doesn’t care and he’s long known that little in his life has ever been fair. It’s the only comfort they have, the only wall between their fragile hearts and the terror of seeing a tired-looking officer with a red-lettered file walking towards them.

It might happen fast, it might take some time, it might be entirely unforeseen in their youth or it might be the inevitable end of their long lives. It doesn’t matter. Whatever it will be, Cassian decides, it will be together. However it comes, Jyn knows, they will be ready.


	45. bits of joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to another version of the tumblr prompt: "5 things that make me happy."

_Cassian_ : “Your neck has to be killing you,” Jyn says suddenly from behind him. Before Cassian can even look up from the astromech’s secondary processor he has been hunched over for the last several hours, Jyn digs her fingers hard into the muscles of his shoulders. He would almost be embarrassed at the sound he makes, if he wasn’t far too busy leaning back into her and mentally promising himself to return the favor as soon as he can think straight.

 _Jyn:_ She will never admit it to anyone (although she has the strangest feeling that Chirrut somehow knows), but when Jyn fights, she hears music. It’s not like a holo-stream playing in her ear, nothing powerful and obvious like that. It’s more like an echo ricocheting around in the crevices of her mind, like someone humming in the next room, like a distant drumbeat throbbing in time with her heart and her fists. Jyn doesn’t ever let it distract her from the fight, but sometimes her steps flow a little more rhythmic, sometimes her strikes are timed to the distant throbbing of drums.

 _Chirrut/Baze:_ “In retrospect,” Chirrut tells him with only the faintest hint of apology (a gentle touch to the back of Baze’s shoulder, a swallowed sigh at the tail end of his words), “you were probably right.” (”Yes, well,” Baze tells him back with only mild satisfaction evident in his voice (a warm brush of fingers to his temple, an unspoken promise never to hold his mistakes against him), “That happens, sometimes.”)

 _Bodhi:_ The world outside the cockpit is entirely grey, nothing but thick wet clouds crowding against the viewscreen and rendering Bodhi entirely reliant on the flashing green instruments on his panel. He’s been flying blind for the last twenty seconds - which is an eternity to a pilot, enough time to hit an uncharted mountain, enough time to get completely turned around, enough time to even get so lost and disoriented that up becomes down and the ship flies into the dirt before the pilot even knows that they are - and then abruptly the grey wipes away, sunlight bursts into the cockpit, and in the blink of an eye Bodhi is soaring through a crystal blue sky above a vast sea of clouds that glows golden in the sunrise.

 _K2SO:_ Jyn Erso holds the blaster out. Probability that she is aware of the galactic restrictions against droids carrying blasters = [90%].  Probability that she is aware of the specific concerns of Alliance command RE: former Imperial Security Droid Designated K-2SO = [78%]. My friend Cassian stands behind her. Cassian knows that I am not authorized a weapon. Probability that Cassian has informed Jyn Erso that I am not authorized a weapon = [95%]. Cassian is not objecting to the weapon that Jyn Erso is holding out to me. Probability that Cassian is allowing Jyn Erso to present me with a weapon because he has been specifically ordered not to give me one, but she has not, and Cassian is subverting authority without disobeying his orders = [99%]. Probability that Jyn Erso is giving me a blaster because she enjoys subverting authority = [62%]. Probability that Jyn Erso is giving me a blaster because she likes me = [Error: parameters unknown].

“As I am your primary backup in the event of physical altercation, I accept this upgrade to my combat capabilities. You show good sense in providing it.”

“You’re welcome.”


	46. Mothers and memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a response to an anon on tumblr, ages ago. Forgot to shift it over here. The question was simply: "how about some Jyn and Lyra?"

She almost scrolls right past it, just another name in a long, long list of names. She’s not even really invested in this research. Cassian just asked if she had any ideas because his own hunt is coming up empty, and Jyn had picked up this random datapad and scanned through it just to see if anything jumped out at her. And at first, nothing does. They’re looking for some informer last seen on Coruscant, a guy who worked for the Republic and then the Empire but now hates both, apparently? Jyn’s not too clear on the purpose of this man-hunt, and honestly, unless she’s sent to find the guy herself, doesn’t really care. She and Cassian are on a down-swing, though, getting a mandatory two week break after a long, miserable undercover mission, but neither are any good at staying idle, so by day four they find themselves in the comm hub, helping Research and Analysis, prepping mission briefs for other people.

Like this informer guy, whoever he is. Jyn’s got a list of aliases and she’s comparing them to various sources, like credit lines and criminal records, and just to be thorough, she opens a file on memorial records in one of the largest cemeteries on Coruscant. Faking the death of one alias to hide inside another is a common trick, and if she finds one of his known names in among the –

Lyra Erso.

Jyn’s brain slams to a halt, her whole body going still.

Lyra Erso has a memorial on Coruscant.

Jyn’s fingers shake as she taps the file name, and a window pops up on her datapad. It’s small, just an engraved plate with her name, her Life day, her day of death, and then, oh, fire and Force and _fuck_ , someone’s paid the little “patriot’s fee” to have the Wheel of Fate, the Empire’s crest, stamped into the metal plate next to Lyra Erso’s name.

“Jyn,” Cassian’s voice seems to come from very far away, like an echo through the long, dark paths of the cave, like the very far away light coming through the hatch overhead.

But his hand on her arm is warm and real and immediate, and it jolts her back to herself. Jyn tears her eyes from the image on her datapad and sees him looking at her closely, brow furrowed in concern. He’s shifted his chair closer to hers, and turned his back on the comm hub behind him, why did he do that? He hates having his back to the crowd, to the door across the room. Then she realizes that he’s moved to block her from the sight of the other three agents in the comm hub with them. The others are occupied with their own work, but Jyn’s face must be giving her away because Cassian takes care to make sure they can’t see it. She is, for a moment, absurdly grateful, because shit, she’s probably going to karking cry and isn’t that just the…the stupidest…what even _is_ her problem?

Woman’s been dead for fifteen years. Jyn can barely remember her face. She can’t remember her voice at all, not with any clarity.  Lyra Erso is a crystal around Jyn’s neck, a faint memory of warmth and faith that things will be okay, sooner or later. If she can just survive long enough to see.

But now, weirdly - as Jyn sits here with suddenly wet and heavy eyes, with her throat tight and her face flushing and her heart pounding so hard she thinks those other agents will be able to hear it – she starts to remember other things, too. Rocks, that’s it, Mama always had bits of rocks and pretty shells and things like that, she liked picking them up and cutting them apart with her little tool kit and sometimes stringing the prettier ones into windchimes or mobiles. There was dirt under her nails, even before Lah’mu, although Jyn recalls that only because she can remember Papa teasing her about it, afterwards, _you always had dirt under your nails, even in the city._

And her anger, oh, shit, Mama when she was angry, Jyn remembers _that_ , remembers how unsurprised she was to see Mama’s angry face in that field when the man in white appeared, how she’d been so sure that Mama was going to make the man in white and his unfamiliar black stormtroopers cry because she could be so scary when she was mad. Jyn knows, in a sudden flash of clarity, that if Lyra Erso knew someone had branded her memorial with the Empire’s crest, she would be furious enough to make a platoon of deathtroopers cry. She would – she would -

“Jyn,” Cassian says again, and his voice is softer now, cautious but mercilessly kind, and it’s the last straw, Jyn can’t sit here and let him be so kind, not when she’s this unstable. So she shoves the datapad towards him and all but flees the comm hub, keeping her head up and her face as blank as she can. She…probably isn’t pulling it off well, given that half the people she runs into in the hallway veer to the side immediately and the other half turn to stare at her as she pushes past.

Lyra’s Life day was written in the old Lothal calendar format. Forty-seven years ago, she realizes, and then she died fifteen years ago, so…she was…shit, she was thirty-two when she died, when the man in white killed her and left her to rot in the field, somehow that seems so _young_ , and Jyn doesn’t know what to do with that information. She’s ten years younger now than her mother ever was. Ever will be. If she makes it another ten years, she’ll be the same age. If she somehow, miraculously, makes it even further –

This is pointless. It’s all pointless. What is she even thinking about? How does any of this matter? It doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. It’s all old news, ancient history, and not even interesting history, not to anyone but her, because everyone else who might have given half a damn is already dead too. Everyone’s dead, everyone’s _gone_.

“Jyn!”

She whirls, her chin up and braced for a fight, braced to tell him that nothing is wrong and she’s fine and he can just fuck off back to the comm hub because she’s _fine_ , but Cassian doesn’t give her the chance, doesn’t ask if she’s okay or tell her something inane like _I’m sorry for your loss._ He doesn’t even stop walking, just loops his arm around her waist as he passes her and half-drags her down the hall, making a sharp right towards the living quarters. Jyn considers resisting, considers yanking away and striding off, just to show him, just to be contrary and angry and who the hells does he think he is? But the truth is…she needs somewhere quiet, somewhere people won’t stare, and Cassian’s tiny room is one of the only places in this whole damn base where there is any real privacy. Perks of being a high-ranking intel officer.

So she goes, grudgingly, and she’s even a little grateful that he walks so fast, leading her along by the waist, because her eyes are blurring more and more and if she doesn’t hit something or get into a fire fight or _something,_ anything, she’s really going to burst into kriffing tears right here and fuck that. Fuck it sideways.

They make it to Cassian’s quarters at last and he keys it open. Jyn storms inside without waiting and stands in the middle of the room, shaking a little with the strain. Behind her, Cassian stands in the open doorway and puts his hand against the seam to keep the door from sliding closed. “Stay or go,” he asks calmly, and Jyn peers at him over her shoulder.  He looks…calm. Not relaxed, but calm. No, when she looks closer she can see that his eyes are tired, sad.

“It’s your room,” Jyn grates out harshly, her voice already wobbling. “You can,” she stops, swallows, continues stubbornly. “You can do what you want.”

“It’s your mother,” he replies without missing a beat. “You can grieve how you want.”

Jyn closes her eyes. He understands. Of course he does. She’s never asked where his family is buried, if they are buried, but she knows his father died protesting against Republic soldiers, and she wonders suddenly if there is a Republic emblem stamped somewhere on _his_ memorial. She wonders how Cassian copes with that knowledge, marries it to his devotion to the _Alliance to Restore the Republic_.

“Stay,” she croaks, and the door slides shut behind them both, closing them into the small space. Jyn stands there a moment longer, her head a mess and her eyes squeezed shut, slow, fat tears leaking down her face now. She makes no noise, though, never a noise, no, that’s dangerous, that’s wrong. And it’s still terrifying, even knowing that no one can see or hear her, it’s terrifying to stand there alone and vulnerable. Jyn fumbles for her crystal, yanking it out from under her collar and gripping it tight. Did her mother ever do this? Did she ever wrap her hands around this small stone and wish she could just fold up and disappear inside it? Did she reach for it when she fell? Oh, Force, did she miss it, as she died?

“Jyn,” Cassian says softly behind her again, and it’s too much, it’s too loud inside her head, so Jyn spins on her heel and rushes him. Cassian staggers a little under the impact, but he recovers fast, his arms tight around her as Jyn curls into herself as small and tight as she can. She grips the crystal in both hands and buries her face in Cassian’s neck and hides from the world, hides from the memories, because her mother is only memories now and not even clear ones, at that. Not even a person anymore, just a name on a brass plate with a lie stamped next to it, and oh, Mama, I’m so sorry they did this to you. I’m so, so sorry for everything I forgot about you. Everything I never learned.

A long time later, when Jyn’s chest feels hollow and her head heavy as an anvil but the tears have stopped, Jyn finds herself curled between Cassian’s knees on the floor. She’s pressed against his chest and his now-damp collar, and his arms are tight around her, his legs braced on either side, his back against the door. She’s surrounded by him, and it ought to feel confining but it doesn’t. Jyn peels one of her hands off her crystal, stiff from being locked in one position for so long, and scrubs at her gritty face. Cassian tentatively slides one arm free and reaches to push some of her lank hair from her face. She lets him, but doesn’t look up to meet his eye. He strokes her hair back once, twice, then tucks his arm back around her. Jyn sighs, watches his throat bob as he swallows in response to her breath rushing over his skin.

“They stamped the crest on her name,” Jyn says at last, her voice a rough croak but coherent enough.

“Yes.” Cassian tilts his head back and she hears the soft _thunk_ as he rests it against the door.

“She wasn’t even from Coruscant.”

“No.”

“They probably did it to fuck with my father’s head.” Jyn clenches her jaw, anger stirring inside her, but then Cassian strokes a weary hand down the side of her face again before pulling her in a little tighter, and the anger dies. She’s just…too tired for it.

“What do you want to do?” Cassian asks, and for a moment Jyn almost says _go to Coruscant and rip the damn thing down._ She almost asks it of him, because in that moment she knows that he will find a way to get them there. He’ll volunteer for this manhunt they’ve been helping with. He’ll take some forsaken assassination op to get at least himself on the planet. For a moment, Jyn is almost completely, utterly certain that wherever his father is buried, there is a Republic crest imprinted over his remains.

Her mother died in a field to save her father. She gave up everything, all her anger and her rocks and her warmth, her hopes for her future, her homeworld, everything, just for the chance to keep him safe.

Jyn presses her face into Cassian’s neck, breathes in the gun oil and soap and sweat smell of him, and understands.

Not perfectly, and not happily, because hells, didn’t Lyra Erso love her daughter too? Didn’t she believe in the rebellion? Wouldn’t she fight for more than one man?

But the rest of it, the urge to protect, the willingness to sacrifice almost everything else for the sake of something like the feeling of Cassian’s arms tight around her in the dim light of this quiet room – yes, Jyn thinks that _this,_ at least, she can understand.

“Nothing to be done,” she says at last, her eyes still pressed closed against the curve of Cassian’s neck. “Just…someday…”

She can’t find the words to say it out loud, because it seems so foolish and sentimental, but Cassian knows her better than anyone else alive, so he says it for her, and in his voice it seems attainable, seems true. “Someday we’ll go there, and make it right.”

Jyn nods. “If we make it, yeah.”

“We will,” he replies fiercely, and Jyn huddles close to him and breathes him in and wills the universe to hear him, wills the Force to make him right, “We will, Jyn. We will.”

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, "Stellr" is a social media platform (essentially space!Tumblr) that I used in my [Message Traffic](http://archiveofourown.org/series/813897) series.


End file.
